In spite of his entreaty, she waited for more than a week before she replied to Eddie’s letter, for she wished to have something to tell him. She spent two entire evenings over her letter, and when it was done there was hardly a mistake in it, in spelling, in grammar, or in sentiment; for Angelica was fast learning the correct way to feel.
Dear Eddie:
Your letter was wonderful, and I could not write one nearly so good, or so interesting. I understand how you feel, but I do not know how to say anything. I feel like that, too, afraid to expect any happiness, but I want to fight for it. I want to tell God that I will not be cheated, and that it has all got to come out right.
I go to the movies with mother whenever there is a war picture, to try and get some idea what it is like over there, but I guess no one can. That is another thing I don’t dare to think about—all that you must be suffering. But, Eddie dear, I will try my best to make it up to you when you get back.
I don’t go to the factory any more, but I have a very nice place as a milliner with two girls who have a shop in Washington Square. I am doing nicely. I design the hats myself and make them, and Miss Sillon says it will not be long before my hats are recognized everywhere in New York. "Angélique," I call myself on the label I sew in the hats. She says they are almost too daring, but very original.
She wanted to write more—much more—about her hats, but she knew it wouldn’t do. She was required to fill up the letter with general observations and with her interest in Eddie, and she did so.
She was pleased with this letter, and yet it troubled her. She felt both mean and cruel. She knew that she had nothing to give Eddie; she knew that in every way she was defrauding and injuring him. To stifle her distress she had only her profound faith in herself, her conviction that she had obliterated the past and could and would make a glorious future. She couldn’t help contrasting her laboured and prudent letter with his careless candour. Evidently he didn’t care what he said. He just wrote her what came to his mind. He felt so sure of her!
"I haven’t really done him any harm," she protested, lying awake in the dark. "If he never knows, it’s just exactly the same—for him—as if it had never happened."
And still she knew that she was forcing him to play the part he would have hated and rejected beyond any other—that of the poor dishonoured fool. She didn’t even love him.
"I’ll learn to love him!" she cried. "I love him a little bit already."