Almost with a sob in his throat Stanton turned again to the box of letters on his table.
By dawn the feverish, excited sleeplessness in his brain had driven him on and on to one last, supremely fantastic impulse. Writing to Cornelia he told her bluntly, frankly,
"Dear Cornelia:
"When I asked you to marry me, you made me promise very solemnly at the time that if I ever changed my mind regarding you I would surely tell you. And I laughed at you. Do you remember? But you were right, it seems, and I was wrong. For I believe that I have changed my mind. That is:—I don't know how to express it exactly, but it has been made very, very plain to me lately that I do not by any manner of means love you as little as you need to be loved.
"In all sincerity,
"Carl."
To which surprising communication Cornelia answered immediately; but the 'immediately' involved a week's almost maddening interim,
"Dear Carl:
"Neither mother nor I can make any sense whatsoever out of your note. By any possible chance was it meant to be a joke? You say you do not love me 'as little' as I need to be loved. You mean 'as much', don't you? Carl, what do you mean?"
Laboriously, with the full prospect of yet another week's agonizing strain and suspense, Stanton wrote again to Cornelia.