"Yes, you would, if in that way you could build a bridge to bring him back to happiness. And, Reg, though you used to despise him—"
"I never despised him."
"A little I think—before you knew him. But he is not despicable."
"Not at all, my dear."
"He is honest and good, and has a real heart of his own."
"I am afraid he has parted with that."
"You know what I mean, and if you won't be serious I shall think there is no seriousness in you. I want you to tell me how it can be done."
Then he was serious, and tried to explain to her that he could not very well do what she wanted. "He is your friend you know rather than mine;—but if you like to write to him you can do so."
This seemed to her to be very difficult, and, as she thought more of it, almost impossible. A written letter remains, and may be taken as evidence of so much more than it means. But a word sometimes may be spoken which, if it be well spoken,—if assurance of its truth be given by the tone and by the eye of the speaker,—shall do so much more than any letter, and shall yet only remain with the hearer as the remembrance of the scent of a flower remains! Nevertheless she did at last write the letter, and brought it to her husband. "Is it necessary that I should see it?" he asked.
"Not absolutely necessary."