practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and
generally knows nothing else, will excuse her of
indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when
she did act, no one could accuse her of indecision then.
She hit out as lustily as if she had not considered the
matter at all. The letter that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed
with the native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought
was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that
leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped
away.


Dear Mrs. Wilcox,

I have to write something discourteous. It would be
better if we did not meet. Both my sister and my aunt
have given displeasure to your family, and, in my
sister's case, the grounds for displeasure might recur.
As far as I know, she no longer occupies her thoughts
with your son. But it would not be fair, either to her
or to you, if they met, and it is therefore right that
our acquaintance which began so pleasantly, should end.

I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I
know that you will not, since you have been good enough
to call on us. It is only an instinct on my part, and no
doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would,
undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her
knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her
with my discourtesy.