dictate a refusal. But he could write; and, in point of fact,
writing-materials were on the table. Again and again he had sat down and
taken the pen in his hand, only to get up as often and go and stare out
into the yellow glare of the night. For an instant his shadow would fall
on the foliage of the trees below, and then pass away again like a
ghost.

At two-and-twenty love is reckless, and glib of speech; it takes little
heed of the future; the light straw-flame, for however short a period,
leaps up merrily enough. But at two-and-thirty it is more alive to
consequences; it is not the present moment, but the duration of life,
that it regards; it seeks to proceed with a sure foot. And at this
crisis, in the midst of all this irresolution, that was unspeakably
vexatious to a man of his firm nature, Brand demanded of himself his
utmost power of self-control. He would not imperil the happiness of his
life by a hasty, importunate appeal. When at length he sat down,
determined not to rise until he had sent her this message, he forced
himself to write--at the beginning, at least--in a roundabout and
indifferent fashion, so that she should not be alarmed. He began by
excusing his writing to her, saying he had scarcely ever had a chance of
talking to her, and that he wished to tell her something of what had
happened to him since the memorable evening on which he had first met
her at her father's house. And he went on to speak to her of a friend of
his, who used to amuse himself with the notion that he would like to
enter himself at a public school and go through his school life all over
again. There he had spent the happiest of his days; why should he not
repeat them? If only the boys would agree to treat him as one of
themselves, why should he not be hail-fellow-well-met with them, and
once more enjoy the fun of uproarious pillow-battles and have smuggled
tarts and lemonade at night, and tame rabbits where no rabbits should