6
Some days later, the same post brought two letters. One was Jennifer’s answer, scribbled all but illegibly across a half-sheet of note-paper, dashed off, it seemed, in wild haste.
Oh, it would be too lovely to see you again, darling. I can’t seem to make plans, or think at all. You are alone and you sound as if you had been so terribly unhappy. Oh, poor darling. Yes, it would be marvellous to do something together, but what? You know you know you know what I’m like. Why do you want to be bothered with me again. Remember how miserable I made you. But I must see you again—just to set eyes on you again would be heavenly. October 24th. Will that suit you. I will come to our tea-shop where we always went. Sit in the front room in the corner under the window. I’ll come for you there about four o’clock. Don’t wait for me after 5. I shall get there by car somehow. I thought if I didn’t come till the afternoon it would give you time to go out to College and see people if you want to. I don’t want to. Perhaps we could stay the night somewhere. What do you think. I can’t say anything more definite than this. I will try to get there punctually. But if I wasn’t there—(here several words were so thickly inked over as to be indecipherable—and the letter ended in a desperate-looking scrawl)—It will be too too lovely to be with you again.
J.
The other letter made a bulky package. She opened it and saw many sheets of round unformed handwriting. At the top of the first page some other hand had written something minutely in pencil: Julian’s hand. She read:
You asked me for news of Mariella. Here it is. I think you guessed what I was neither perspicacious nor interested enough to suspect; or did even she fall into the common habit of “telling Judith?” There is something about this document which has made me feel far from flattered in my vanity or elevated in my self-esteem. What I send you is for you and no one else. After you have read it destroy it. You are discreet; and for some reason you care what becomes of us; and, last but not least, you have the artistic conscience, a sense of dramatic values. It seems to me this rounds us off nicely.
Tchehov? Turgenev?
J. F.
And underneath she read in Mariella’s childlike hand: