She went off to her work in a defiant frame of mind, carrying, however, the letter with her in her handbag.

What she did write—­after several days’ delay—­was this:—­

     “MY DEAR MR. WANDER:—­

“I can see that Honora is in the best place in the world for her.  You must let me know when she has checkmated you.  I quite agree that that will show the beginning of her recovery.  She has had a terrible misfortune, and it was the outcome of a disease from which all of us ‘advanced’ women are suffering.  Her convictions and her instincts were at war.  I can’t imagine what is going to happen to us.  We all feel very unsettled, and Honora’s tragedy is only one of several sorts which may come to any of us.  But an instinct deeper than instinct, a conviction beyond conviction, tells me that we are right—­that we must go on, studying, working, developing.  We may have to pay a fearful price for our advancement, but I do not suppose we could turn back now if we would.

“You ask if I will correspond with you.  Well, do you suppose we really have anything to say?  What, for example, have you to tell me about?  Honora says you own a mine, or two or three; that you have a city of workmen; that you are a father to them.  Are they Italians?  I think she said so.  They’re grateful folk, the Italians.  I hope they like you.  They are so sweet when they do, and so—­sudden—­when they don’t.

“I have had something to do with them, and they are very dear to me.  They ask me to their christenings and to other festivals.  I like their gayety because it contrasts with my own disposition, which is gloomy.

“Upon reflection, I think we’d better not write to each other.  You were too explicit in your letter—­too precautionary.  You’d make me have a conscience about it, and I’d be watching myself.  That’s too much trouble.  My business is to watch others, not myself.  But I do thank you for giving such a welcome to Honora and the babies.  I hope you will soon be about again.  I find it so much easier to imagine you riding over a mountain pass than sitting in the house with a leg in plaster.

     “Yours sincerely,

     “KATE BARRINGTON.”

He wrote back:—­

     “MY DEAR MISS BARRINGTON:—­

“I admire your idea of gloom!  Not the spirit of gloom but of adventure moves you.  I saw it in your eye.  When I buy a horse, I always look at his eye.  It’s not so much viciousness that I’m afraid of as stupidity.  I like a horse that is always pressing forward to see what is around the next turn.  Now, we humans are a good deal like horses.  Women are, anyway.  And I saw your eye.  My own opinion is that you are having the finest time of anybody I know.  You’re shaping your own life, at least,—­and that’s the best fun there is,—­the best kind of good fortune.  Of course you’ll get tired of it after a while.  I don’t say that