him. After all, how little she knew of Philip--now, why did that thought
always come up! It made her shudder. They two would really have to
begin with the A B C of understanding. To understand was a passion, it
was breathing and life to her. She would never, could never, be
satisfied with skimming the surface of life as the gulls out there
skimmed the water. . . . Ah, how beautiful the morning was, and how
the bracing air soothed her feverishness! All this sky, and light, and
uplifting sea were hers, they fed her with their strength--they were all
so companionable.

Since Philip had gone--and that was but four days ago--she had sat down
a dozen times to write to him, but each time found she could not. She,
drew back from it because she wanted to empty out her heart, and yet,
somehow, she dared not. She wanted to tell Philip all the feelings that
possessed her; but how dared she write just what she felt: love and
bitterness, joy and indignation, exaltation and disappointment, all in
one? How was it these could all exist in a woman's heart at once? Was
it because Love was greater than all, deeper than all, overcame all,
forgave all? and was that what women felt and did always? Was that
their lot, their destiny? Must they begin in blind faith, then be
plunged into the darkness of disillusion, shaken by the storm of emotion,
taste the sting in the fruit of the tree of knowledge--and go on again
the same, yet not the same?

More or less incoherently these thoughts flitted through Guida's mind.
As yet her experiences were too new for her to fasten securely upon their
meaning. In a day or two she would write to Philip freely and warmly of
her love and of her hopes; for, maybe, by that time nothing but happiness
would be left in the caldron of feeling. There was a packet going to
England in three days--yes, she would wait for that. And Philip--alas!