“Do you remember once when we were talking, you said:  ’Nature always has an answer for every question; you cannot get an answer from laws, conventions, theories, words, only from Nature.’  What do you say to me now; do you tell me it is Nature to come to you in spite of everything, and so, that it must be right?  I think you would; but can it be Nature to do something which will hurt terribly one whom I love and who loves me?  If it is—­Nature is cruel.  Is that one of the ‘lessons of life’?  Is that what Aunt Constance means when she says:  ’If life were not a paradox, we could not get on at all’?  I am beginning to see that everything has its dark side; I never believed that before.

“Uncle Nic dreads the life for me; he doesn’t understand (how should he?—­he has always had money) how life can be tolerable without money—­it is horrible that the accident of money should make such difference in our lives.  I am sometimes afraid myself, and I can’t outface that fear in him; he sees the shadow of his fear in me—­his eyes seem to see everything that is in me now; the eyes of old people are the saddest things in the world.  I am writing like a wretched coward, but you will never see this letter I suppose, and so it doesn’t matter; but if you do, and I pray that you may—­well, if I am only worth taking at my best, I am not worth taking at all.  I want you to know the worst of me—­you, and no one else.

“With Uncle Nic it is not as with my stepfather; his opposition only makes me angry, mad, ready to do anything, but with Uncle Nic I feel so bruised—­so sore.  He said:  ’It is not so much the money, because there is always mine.’  I could never do a thing he cannot bear, and take his money, and you would never let me.  One knows very little of anything in the world till trouble comes.  You know how it is with flowers and trees; in the early spring they look so quiet and self-contained; then all in a moment they change—­I think it must be like that with the heart.  I used to think I knew a great deal, understood why and how things came about; I thought self-possession and reason so easy; now I know nothing.  And nothing in the world matters but to see you and hide away from that look in Uncle Nic’s eyes.  Three months ago I did not know you, now I write like this.  Whatever I look at, I try to see as you would see; I feel, now you are away even more than when you were with me, what your thoughts would be, how you would feel about this or that.  Some things you have said seem always in my mind like lights—­”

A slanting drift of rain was striking the veranda tiles with a cold, ceaseless hissing.  Christian shut the window, and went into her uncle’s room.

He was lying with closed eyes, growling at Dominique, who moved about noiselessly, putting the room ready for the night.  When he had finished, and with a compassionate bow had left the room, Mr. Treffry opened his eyes, and said: