Write directly you get this to

Your loving
Emilia.

LETTER XVII.

Graysmill, November 21st.

For the first time in my life, I have been a little cross with you, Constance of my heart.  My anger did not last long, but even when it was practically at an end I felt obliged to play at being cross with you, and therefore would not write.  But to-day comes another sweet letter from you, and I am miserable to think you should have had to write a second time before getting an answer to your dear words.  Forgive me!  I do love you so!  I shall tell you quite frankly why I was cross.  You must never tease me again about Gabriel Norton.  I don’t like to be teased at the best of times, and I think it positively wrong to make love a subject for laughter and nonsense.  You see, I allow that I love him; of course I do, but not as you imagine.  Surely there is a love of spirit to spirit which stands higher than the material love of man and woman.  It is just because we look upon each other in the first place as human beings, as comrades on the road of life, that our friendship is a source of strength and comfort to us.  If either were to harbour other thoughts, all that is beautiful in our intercourse must come to an end.  No, you are silly; you must never say such things again, promise me that.  Why, it is just the very absence of love that makes our friendship.  If only people would believe this, if only men and women would learn to exchange their thoughts in freedom, to be simple and open in their dealings with each other, what a much better world this world would be!

But you are just like the rest; indeed, worse than the rest.  Because, somehow or other, whether it’s the fault of your curls or of your lips, or of your smile, or of your whole sweet self, I know not, but because no man ever draws near you but what you make a fool of him, you seem to think all men resemble your victims, all women you, their bane.  No, you don’t, though; I malign you.  Do you remember saying to me one day:  “Try and make yourself appear a little silly sometimes, Emilia, do, now!  Men never fall in love with clever women!” And right you were.  The only passions I ever inspired flared through their day in the bosoms of women and boys.  Never mind!  I had sooner have Gabriel’s friendship than ten thousand of your lovers; I had sooner see you too, sweet, with such a friend as he to lean upon, than surrounded as you are now by the foolish and ugly admiration of worthless men.

There, enough lecturing for the present.  It’s understood, eh?