to be laid.

At first I was afraid--oh, so much afraid--that you cared for me only
because I was Silvia, that you loved me because you thought Rendle had
loved me. I began to think there was no escaping my destiny.

How happy I was when I discovered that you were growing jealous of my
past; that you actually hated Rendle! My heart beat like a girl's when you
told me you meant to follow me to Venice.

After our parting at Villa d'Este my old doubts reasserted themselves.
What did I know of your feeling for me, after all? Were you capable of
analyzing it yourself? Was it not likely to be two-thirds vanity and
curiosity, and one-third literary sentimentality? You might easily fancy
that you cared for Mary Anerton when you were really in love with Silvia--
the heart is such a hypocrite! Or you might be more calculating than I had
supposed. Perhaps it was you who had been flattering _my_ vanity in the
hope (the pardonable hope!) of turning me, after a decent interval, into a
pretty little essay with a margin.

When you arrived in Venice and we met again--do you remember the music on
the lagoon, that evening, from my balcony?--I was so afraid you would
begin to talk about the book--the book, you remember, was your ostensible
reason for coming. You never spoke of it, and I soon saw your one fear was
_I_ might do so--might remind you of your object in being with me. Then I
knew you cared for me! yes, at that moment really cared! We never
mentioned the book once, did we, during that month in Venice?

I have read my letter over; and now I wish that I had said this to you
instead of writing it. I could have felt my way then, watching your face