“Ah, no, you must not cheat the world so; you must not cheat yourself so!  And how cruel it would be to me!  Whatever I deserve—­and in leaving you to marry Rudyard I deserved heavy punishment—­still I do not deserve the torture which would follow me to the last day of my life if, because of me, you sacrificed that which is not yours alone, but which belongs to all the world.  I loathe myself when I think of the old wrong that I did you; but no leper woman could look upon herself with such horror as I should upon myself, if, for the new wrong I have done you, you were to take your own life.

“These are so many words, and perhaps they will not read to you as real.  That is perhaps because I am only shallow at the best; am only, as you once called me, ‘a little burst of eloquence.’  But even I can suffer, and I believe that even I can love.  You say you cannot go on as things are; that I must go with you or you must die; and yet you do not wish me to go with you.  You have said that, too.  But do you not wonder what would become of me, if either of these alternatives is followed?  A little while ago I could deceive Rudyard, and put myself in pretty clothes with a smile, and enjoy my breakfast with him and look in his face boldly, and enjoy the clothes, and the world and the gay things that are in it, perhaps because I had no real moral sense.  Isn’t it strange that out of the thing which the world would condemn as most immoral, as the very degradation of the heart and soul and body, there should spring up a new sense that is moral—­perhaps the first true glimmering of it?  Oh, dear love of my life, comrade of my soul, something has come to me which I never had before, and for that, whatever comes, my lifelong gratitude must be yours!  What I now feel could never have come except through fire and tears, as you yourself say, and I know so well that the fire is at my feet, and the tears—­I wept them all last night, when I too wanted to die.

“You are coming at eleven to-day, Ian—­at eleven.  It is now eight.  I will try and send this letter to reach you before you leave your rooms.  If not, I will give it to you when you come—­at eleven.  Why did you not say noon—­noon—­twelve of the clock?  The end and the beginning!  Why did you not say noon, Ian?  The light is at its zenith at noon, at twelve; and the world is dark at twelve—­at midnight.  Twelve at noon; twelve at night; the light and the dark—­which will it be for us, Ian?  Night or noon?  I wonder, oh, I wonder if, when I see you I shall have the strength to say, ’Yes, go, and come again no more.’  Or whether, in spite of everything, I shall wildly say, ‘Let us go away together.’  Such is the kind of woman that I am.  And you—­dear lover, tell me truly what kind of man are you?

“Your jasmine.”

He read the letter slowly, and he stopped again and again as though to steady himself.  His face became strained and white, and once he poured brandy and drank it off as though it were water.  When he had finished the letter he went heavily over to the fire and dropped it in.  He watched it burn, until only the flimsy carbon was left.