“After that one afternoon on the sands, after that delicious day of realization that my hopes were true—that you loved me—to be flung aside in a moment like an old glove, like a burnt-out match, with no word of explanation, of reason—nothing! It shan’t stay so! You can’t mean it! You are a woman, a true, sweet woman; you shan’t make me believe you a soulless flirt! There is something else—something I must know!
“I feel so helpless, writing to you. Space is a monster. If I could only see you for a single moment, I know it would be all right. Write to me. Tell me what I want to know. Until I hear something from you, I shall be utterly, endlessly miserable.
“R. D.”
Margaret to Daunt.
“I cannot come back, Richard. I cannot even explain to you why. Don’t humiliate me by writing me for reasons. You would not understand me. What good would it do to explain, when I can hardly explain it to myself? I only feel, and I am wretched.
“You must forget that afternoon! I am trying to do the right thing—the thing that seems right to myself. I must believe in my instinct; that is all a woman has. I know this letter doesn’t tell you anything—I can’t—there is no use—I can’t!
“You know one thing. You must know that that last day, when I kissed you, I did not think of this. I did not intend to go away then. That was all afterward. I had no idea of hurting or wronging you—not the slightest!
“I know this is incoherent. I read over what I have written and the lines get all jumbled up. Somehow it seems to mean nothing. And yet it means so much—oh, so horribly much!—to me.
“M.”