Write to me; write soon. You seem further away from me to-day than you did last night; and yet I should miss you more if I could realise my own existence. Can you make your way through these contradictions? It seems to me this evening that I, Emilia, am still beside you, that some one else sits here in exile with nothing written on the page of her future, not even by the finger of Hope. Good night, dearest.
Yours ever and always,
Emilia.
LETTER III.
Fletcher’s Hall, Graysmill,
July 26th.
What do you think stepped in with my bath this morning? A long narrow letter sealed with a heart. I kissed the blue stamp and spread the three dear sheets out on my pillow. Oimé, Constantia, how I love you! But why write about me? Why waste pen and ink wondering how I am? Tell me about yourself, tell me all you do, and all you think; tell me how many different hats you wore on Wednesday, and how you misspent your time on Thursday; tell me of all the nonsense that is poured into your ears, of all the rubbish you read; tell me even how many times your mother wakes you in the night to ask if you are sleeping well. I long for you so that the very faults of your life are dear to me, even those for which I most reprove you when you are near.
Let me see: it is past midday with you; you and your mother are out walking. I hear you both.
“Constance,” says Mrs. Rayner, “put up your parasol!”
“Thanks, mother,” you reply; “I like to feel the sun.”
“You’ll freckle.”
“Through this thick veil and all the powder?”