Dear old Davy:
Molly has just told me and I can’t help writing to you. We are no longer children, are we? And the old misunderstanding was of a boy and a girl. I have always bitterly regretted it. I don’t know whose fault it was,—perhaps both. If I was to blame I am truly sorry. I have never forgotten the old days or how fine you were with me. In all my life there has been nothing more honest. I cannot bear to have you go without knowing it. If you will let me, it will mean a great deal to me if I could help just a little,—keep you in touch with things at home, and let you know how many, many of your friends are keeping you in their thoughts. May I,—please, Davy—for old times.
Just as I used to be,
Anne.
I have the letter in my hand and to-day the memory hurts. The cafard is strong on me, and the futility of my drifting existence. There are other letters, chatty, carefully restrained letters, matching the tone of my answers,—but this one I keep, for sometimes, in moments of depression, in the passionate revulsion to living, I turn to what might have been.
* * * * *
At this point, Coustic came in with my orders. To-morrow I am to set out for Paris, there to report before an examining board. He stared at my long face and the open diary.
“What’s wrong, youngster?”
“Thinking of home, mon vieux.”
“What are you writing there,—a romance?”
“It passes the time.”
“Literature? Bad for the nerves. Don’t do it. You can’t change anything—can you?”