The concierge's boy delivered this at Miss Brooke's pension.
He scarcely knew how he got through the night. Every now and again he woke up and tossed about; and when he did lose consciousness, he had a sense of a grey infinity in which there was a great chasm. He wanted to rush to it to close it up, but was held back by some strange power.
The morning's post brought him Miss Brooke's reply.
"Dear Paul.—I am glad your letter is so sensible and to the point. Of course I owe you an explanation, but I want you not to insist on it, because I fear it will hurt you too much. The pain it would give me I deserve.—Yours, Lisa."
He found this note infinitely softer than the first and was encouraged to write again.
"Dear Lisa.—I am not strong enough to face the punishment unless I know my sin. The pain of listening to you can be nothing to the pain of this horrible gap in my mind. Won't you let me see you—for the last time? Remember it is only a day since you told me you loved me. Don't refuse. Paul."
To which came the reply by his own messenger.
"Dear Paul.—Come this evening at eight and you will find me alone.—Yours,
"Lisa."
All day long he nerved himself for the interview. He would rehearse nothing, anticipate nothing. When the time came, he would speak straight from his heart. Perhaps he might yet move her.