“The gray mist came down like a curtain, shutting off the past and marking where the present begins.  It seems to me that I never lived before that moment, and yet those months were happy while they lasted, so that it sometimes seemed as though no greater happiness could be possible.  How did it all happen, most blessed lady?

“The lazy, good-natured sea, that loves us well, washes up and glances through my port-hole as I write, as if in answer to my question.  The sea knows how it happened, for he saw us, and bore us, and heard all the tale; and even in Newport he was there, hidden under the fog and listening, and he is rejoicing that those who loved are now lovers.  It is not hard to see how it happened.  They all worship you, every human being that comes near you falls down and acknowledges you to be the queen.  For they must.  There is no salvation from that, and it is meet and right that it should be so.  And I came, like the others, to do homage to the great queen, and you deigned to raise me up and bid me stand beside you.

“You are my first allegiance and my first love.  I thank Heaven that I can say it honestly and truly, without fear of my conscience pricking.  You know too, for I have told you, how my boyhood and manhood have been passed, and if there is anything you do not know I will tell you hereafter, for I would always hate to feel that there was anything about me you did not know—­I could not feel it.  But then, say you, he should have told me what he was going to do abroad.  And so I have, dear lady; for though I have not explained it all to you, I have placed all needful knowledge in safe hands, where you can obtain it for the asking, if ever the least shadow of doubt should cross your mind.  Only I pray you, as suing a great boon, not to doubt—­that is all, for I would rather you did not know yet.

“This letter is being written by degrees.  I have not written all this at once, for I find it as hard to express my thoughts to you on paper as I find it easy by word of mouth.  It seems a formal thing to write, and yet there should be nothing less marred by formality than such a letter as mine.  It is only that the choice is too great.  I have too much to say, and so say nothing.  I would ask, if I were so honoured by Heaven, the tongues of men and of angels, and all the mighty word-music of sage and prophet, that I might tell you how I love you, my heart’s own.  I would ask that for one hour I might hold in my hand the baton of heaven’s choir.  Then would I lead those celestial musicians through such a grand plain chant as time has never dreamt of, nor has eternity yet heard it; so that rank on rank of angels and saints should take up the song, until the arches of the outer firmament rang again, and the stars chimed together; and all the untold hierarchy of archangelic voice and heavenly instrument should cry, as with one soul, the confession of this heart of mine—­’I love.’