"And you won't permit a letter a month?"
"No."
"Oh, dressed in your little brief authority!" I thought, looking at him. Then I said—
"Very good—I agree."
"I consider I have your word that you will not write, nor hear from her, directly or indirectly, within this year?"
"Certainly you have."
And so the matter was settled.
When Lucia heard of it, we met each other's eyes, and she elevated her eyebrows, and a faint smile curved her lips.
"It will make no difference," she murmured, and nothing more.
After all, I don't know that I cared very greatly about the letters. It was Lucia herself that I wanted—nothing less. It gives me very little pleasure to read a letter, and I never have understood the cherishing locks of hair and dead roses business.