“You know how terribly I feel,” he wrote; “I don’t have to tell you that, but I cannot always go on dragging out my love and holding it up to excite your pity as beggars show their sores.  I cannot always go on praying before your altar, cutting myself with knives and calling upon you to listen to me.  You know that there is no one else but you, and that there never can be any one but you, and that nothing is changed except that after this I am not going to urge and torment you.  I shall wait as I have always waited—­only now I shall wait in silence.  You know just how little, in one way, I have to offer you, and you know just how much I have in love to offer you.  It is now for you to speak—­some day, or never.  But you will have to speak first.  You will never hear a word of love from me again.  Why should you?  You know it is always waiting for you.  But if you should ever want it, you must come to me, and take off your hat and put it on my table and say, ‘Philip, I have come to stay.’  Whether you can ever do that or not can make no difference in my love for you.  I shall love you always, as no man has ever loved a woman in this world, but it is you who must speak first; for me, the rest is silence.”

The following morning as Helen was leaving the house she found this letter lying on the hall-table, and ran back with it to her rooms.  A week before she would have let it lie on the table and read it on her return.  She was conscious that this was what she would have done, and it pleased her to find that what concerned Philip was now to her the thing of greatest interest.  She was pleased with her own eagerness—­her own happiness was a welcome sign, and she was proud and glad that she was learning to care.

She read the letter with an anxious pride and pleasure in each word that was entirely new.  Philip’s recriminations did not hurt her, they were the sign that he cared; nor did his determination not to speak of his love to her hurt her, for she believed him when he said that he would always care.  She read the letter twice, and then sat for some time considering the kind of letter Philip would have written had he known her secret—­had he known that the ring he had abandoned was now upon her finger.

She rose and, crossing to a desk, placed the letter in a drawer, and then took it out again and reread the last page.  When she had finished it she was smiling.  For a moment she stood irresolute, and then, moving slowly toward the centre-table, cast a guilty look about her and, raising her hands, lifted her veil and half withdrew the pins that fastened her hat.

“Philip,” she began, in a frightened whisper, “I have—­I have come to—­”

The sentence ended in a cry of protest, and she rushed across the room as though she were running from herself.  She was blushing violently.

“Never!” she cried, as she pulled open the door; “I could never do it—­never!”

The following afternoon, when Helen was to come to tea, Carroll decided that he would receive her with all the old friendliness, but that he must be careful to subdue all emotion.