Yet I must try, for it’s part of the story; it’s all of it.  With my first sight of you, I realized that here was what I had dreamed of but never hoped to find:  beauty and charm and—­character.  I had seen many women who possessed two of these attributes; it seemed impossible to discover one who had all three.  Many women I had admired—­and despised; many I had respected—­and disliked.  I am not good at analysis, but perhaps you can guess at what I mean.  I may have been unfortunate; I don’t know.  There may be many women who are both beautiful and good.  No, that is not what I mean!  The combination I am trying to describe as impossibly desirable is that not only of beauty and goodness—­I suppose there are really many who have those; but—­goodness and fascination!  That’s what a man wants.  Can you possibly understand?

I wonder if I had better stop writing?  I am showing myself up as hopelessly awkward at expression; probably because my heart is pounding so as I write that it is taking the blood from my brain.  But—­I’ll make one more try at it.

I had no special purpose in life last October.  I meant to do a little good in the world if I could—­without too much trouble.  Some time or other I supposed I should marry—­intended to put it off as long as I could.  I saw no reason why I shouldn’t travel all I wanted to; it was the one thing I really cared for with enthusiasm.  I didn’t appreciate much what a selfish life I was leading, how I was neglecting the one person in the world who loved me and was anxious about me.  Your little sister, Ruth, opened my eyes to that, by the way.  I shall always thank her for it.  I hadn’t known what I was missing.

I don’t know how the change came about.  You charmed me, yet you made me realize every time I was with you that I was not the sort of man you either admired or respected.  I felt it whenever I looked at any of the people in your home.  Every one of them was busy and happy; every one of them was leading a life worth while.  Slowly I waked up.  I believe I’m wide awake now.  What’s more, nothing could ever tempt me to go to sleep again.  I’ve learned to like being awake!

You decreed that I should keep away from you all these months.  I agreed, and I have kept my word.  All the while has been the fear bothering me beyond endurance that you did it to be rid of me.  I said some bold words to you—­to make you remember me.  Roberta, I am humbler to-day than I was then.  I shouldn’t dare say them to you now.  I was madly in love with you then; I dared say anything.  I am not less in love now—­great heavens! not less—­but I have grown to worship you so that I have become afraid.  When I saw you in my room before my mother’s portrait I could have knelt at your feet.  From the beginning I have felt that I was not worthy of you, but I feel it so much more deeply now that I don’t know how to offer myself to you.  I have written as if I wanted to persuade you that I am more of a man than when you knew me first, and therefore more worthy of you.  I am more of a man, but by just so much more do I realize my own unworthiness.