You look puzzled, I see:  you don’t catch the real drift of her words?  Well, that’s a melancholy encouragement.  Neither did I, at the time:  it was plain that I had disappointed her in some way, and my intercourse with or manner toward women had something to do with it.  In vain I ran over as much of my later social life as I could recall.  There had been no special attention, nothing to mislead a susceptible heart; on the other side, certainly no rudeness, no want of “chivalrous” (she used the word!) respect and attention.  What, in the name of all the gods, was the matter?

In spite of all my efforts to grow clearer, I was obliged to write my letter in a rather muddled state of mind.  I had so much to say! sixteen folio pages, I was sure, would only suffice for an introduction to the case; yet, when the creamy vellum lay before me and the moist pen drew my fingers toward it, I sat stock dumb for half an hour.  I wrote, finally, in a half-desperate mood, without regard to coherency or logic.  Here’s a rough draft of a part of the letter, and a single passage from it will be enough: 

“I can conceive of no simpler way to you than the knowledge of your name and address.  I have drawn airy images of you, but they do not become incarnate, and I am not sure that I should recognize you in the brief moment of passing.  Your nature is not of those which are instantly legible.  As an abstract power, it has wrought in my life and it continually moves my heart with desires which are unsatisfactory because so vague and ignorant.  Let me offer you personally, my gratitude, my earnest friendship, you would laugh if I were to now offer more.”

Stay! here is another fragment, more reckless in tone: 

“I want to find the woman whom I can love—­who can love me.  But this is a masquerade where the features are hidden, the voice disguised, even the hands grotesquely gloved.  Come!  I will venture more than I ever thought was possible to me.  You shall know my deepest nature as I myself seem to know it.  Then, give me the commonest chance of learning yours, through an intercourse which shall leave both free, should we not feel the closing of the inevitable bond!”

After I had written that, the pages filled rapidly.  When the appointed hour arrived, a bulky epistle, in a strong linen envelope, sealed with five wax seals, was waiting on my table.  Precisely at six there was an announcement:  the door opened, and a little outside, in the shadow, I saw an old woman, in a threadbare dress of rusty black.

“Come in!” I said.

“The letter!” answered a husky voice.  She stretched out a bony hand, without moving a step.

“It is for a lady—­very important business,” said I, taking up the letter; “are you sure that there is no mistake?”

She drew her hand under the shawl, turned without a word, and moved toward the hall door.

“Stop!” I cried:  “I beg a thousand pardons!  Take it—­take it!  You are the right messenger!”