“I have never wanted to marry a woman before, though I’ve met scores of nice girls. I never felt for one of them the sympathy, the affinity I know for you. You are not in love with me; I don’t expect it for the moment, but you are interested; so far as you’ve gone, you like and approve. You’ve shown that in your letters, and are honest enough to admit it now. Then why not give me a chance? Is there anything derogatory to a sane woman’s dignity in meeting, at his own request, and on perfectly free, unconditional terms, a man who loves her, and wishes to make her his wife? You know there is not.—I ask for no promises; nothing but the chance to meet you on an ordinary friendly footing. If it eases the way, I promise to say no word of love for, shall we say three months? I’d prefer weeks—but it’s your verdict.
“I want you, Katrine! I need you! I want a tangible, flesh and blood love, instead of its shadowy substitute. I want to take you in my arms, and hold you close till the red burns in your cheeks. I want to look down into those deep eyes, and to see them look back into mine. I want to stroke that curly hair, and to kiss those lips. Most of all I want your lips. I hunger to love, and I hunger to be loved. The thought of your coming would be like life; your refusal, blackness like death.
“Is there a soul at home in England who can say as much? And if not, are you justified, Katrine, in sacrificing me to your pride? You won’t do it. You can’t do it! Come to me, Katrine!
“J.C.D. Blair.”
“Cumly, November 20, 19—.
“Dear Captain Blair,
“I have received your letter. What can I say? Honestly, I have tried to weigh your arguments,—not calmly,—that is impossible, but unselfishly, thoughtfully, from every point of view, and indeed, and indeed, I can’t alter my decision!
“I hate the thought of giving you pain; I hate it so much that I will confess that it gives me pain also. I want to give in, and say yes; I want to leave behind the pain and the jar of the last few years, and sail out into the sun,—to see Dorothea, and yes! to see you too; to continue our friendship face to face. I could waive the shyness, waive the pride; what I cannot do is to waive the risk! You are a man; you see, man-like, only the plain, obvious facts; you don’t realise, as a woman does, the hundred and one difficulties and risks. You say that you love me, and you do love the imaginary Katrine whom you have created out of paper and ink. What you don’t realise is how tiny a difference between the real and the imaginary might turn that love to disillusion. I’m honest in my letters; I don’t pretend; Dorothea has no doubt told you my faults as well as my virtues; my photographs are not flattered; because I am young, and healthy, and alert, I am better-looking in real life, yet if I walked into your room at this moment looking my utmost best, you might still feel a shock of disappointment! You might acknowledge that this woman was handsomer, finer, in every way more personable than you had imagined, but that would not soothe the disappointment. She had made unto yourself a dream, and she was not your dream!
“Such a little thing can do it,—a little inconsequent thing, a tiny personal peculiarity, a trick of manner, an expression, a look. It’s not a question of whether it is beautiful and admirable in itself; it is a question of attraction, the indefinable, all-important attraction about which there can be no reasoning, no appeal.
“We discussed it before—do you remember? I told you there was every conceivable reason why I should have loved one man who wanted me, but there it was,—impossible! and nothing could alter it.