“I have put together,” she said, “all your letters for you.  Here they are.  Will you, please, take them back?  I must not keep them any longer.”  He took them, and bowed.  “I made this appointment, as you desired, to tell you the truth, because I have deceived you too long:  and to beg you to forgive me; and to say that, of course, there is an end to our correspondence.”

“Thank you.  It shall be as you desire.  Exactly,” he repeated, “as you desire.”

He ought to have gone at once.  There was nothing more to say.  Yet he lingered, holding the letters in his hand.

“To write these letters,” he said, “has been for a long time one of my greatest pleasures, partly because I felt that I was writing to a friend, and so wrote in full trust and confidence; partly because they procured me a reply—­in the shape of your letters.  Must I take back these letters of mine?”

She made no answer.

“It is hard, is it not, to lose a friend so slowly acquired, thus suddenly and unexpectedly?”

“Yes,” she said, “it is hard.  I am very sorry.  It was my fault.”

“Perhaps I have said something, in my ignorance—­something which ought not to have been said or written—­something careless—­something which has lowered me in your esteem—­”

“Oh, no—­no!” said Iris quickly.  “You have never said anything that a gentleman should not have said.”

“And if you yourself found any pleasure in answering my letters—­”

“Yes,” said Iris with frankness, “it gave me great pleasure to read and to answer your letters, as well as I could.”

“I have not brought back your letters.  I hope you will allow me to keep them.  And, if you will, why should we not continue our correspondence as before?” But he did not ask the question confidently.

“No,” said Iris decidedly “it can never be continued as before.  How could it, when once we have met, and you have learned the truth?”

“Then,” he continued, “if we cannot write to each other any more, can we not talk?”

She ought to have informed him on the spot that the thing was quite impossible, and not to be thought of for one moment.  She should have said, coldly, but firmly—­every right-minded and well-behaved girl would have said—­“Sir, it is not right that you should come alone to a young lady’s study.  Such things are not to be permitted.  It we meet in society, we may, perhaps, renew our acquaintance.”

But girls do go on sometimes as if there was no such thing as propriety at all, and such cases are said to be growing more frequent.  Besides, Iris was not a girl who was conversant with social convenances.  She looked at her pupil thoughtfully and frankly.

“Can we?” she asked.  She who hesitates is lost, a maxim which cannot be too often read, said, and studied.  It is one of the very few golden rules omitted from Solomon’s Proverbs.  “Can we?  It would be pleasant.”