He felt horribly ashamed of himself when he thought about it. His
parents were perfectly right, of course; they had known best, and
fortunately Isabella had not perhaps believed him, and was not a
person of deep feeling anyway.

But the extreme discomfort of the thought of her made him toss in his
bed. What ought he to do? Rush away from Lucerne? To what good? The
die was cast, and in any case he was not bound to Isabella in any
way. But at least he ought to write to her and tell her he had made a
mistake. That was the only honest thing to do. A terrible duty, and
he must brace himself up to accomplish it.

He breakfasted in his sitting-room, his thoughts scourging him the
while, and afterwards, with a bulldog determination, he faced the
writing-table and began.

He tore up at least three sheets to start with--no Greek lines of
punishment in his boyhood had ever appeared such a task as this. He
found himself scribbling profiles on the paper, chiselled profiles
with inky hair--but no words would come.

"Dear Isabella," he wrote at last. No--"My dear Isabella," then he
paused and bit the pen. "I feel I ought to tell you something has
happened to me. I see my parents were right when--" "Oh! dash it all,"
he said to himself, "it's a beastly sneaking thing to do to put it
like that," and he scratched the paragraph out and began again. "I
have made a mistake in my feelings for you; I know now that they were
those of a brother--" "O Lord, what am I to say next, it does sound
bald, this!" The poor boy groaned and ran his hands through his curly
hair, then seized the pen again, and continued--"as such I shall love