Am I not assisting at a like transformation in myself? I, too, with eyes re-opened, and heart illuminated and revived. All hail to the life of light.
"But, Jeannine," I ask her, at once, the past anguish throttling me again, "why have you made me suffer so much?"
"It was you," she murmurs. "Why did you stop writing to me?"
"Your last letter was so cold. You never came—there."
"I understood that you would rather we did not see you till you were—quite cured."
"An argument which I cannot refute. It's true—I did prefer that."
"And then—" She lowers her voice. "There was that other matter——"
"What matter?"
"Which I mentioned to you."
I do not understand. She continues in a more assured tone: