a shot at my forehead would have been mercy.  To you I will dare to open my heart.  I wish to be certain that I have not injured her—­that is all.  Perhaps I am more guilty than you think:  more even than I can call to mind.  If I may fudge by the punishment, my guilt is immeasurable.  Tell me—­if you will but tell me that the sacrifice of my life to her will restore her, it is hers.  Write, and say this, and I will come:  Do not delay or spare me.  Her dumb voice is like a ghost in my ears.  It cries to me that I have killed it.  Be actuated by no charitable considerations in refraining to write.  Could a miniature of her be sent?  You will think the request strange; but I want to be sure she is not haggard—­not the hospital face I fancy now, which accuses me of murder.  Does she preserve the glorious freshness she used to wear?  She had a look—­or did you see her before the change?  I only want to know that she is well.”

[Tracy Runningbrook to Wilfrid:]

“You had my promise that I would write and give your conscience a nightcap.  I have a splendid one for you.  Put it on without any hesitation.  I find her quite comfortable.  Powys reads Italian with her in the morning.  His sister (who might be a woman if she liked, but has an insane preference for celestial neutrality) does the moral inculcation.  The effect is comical.  I should like you to see Cold Steel leading Tame Fire about, and imagining the taming to be her work!  You deserve well of your generation.  You just did enough to set this darling girl alight.  Knights and squires numberless will thank you.  The idea of your reproaching yourself is monstrous.  Why, there’s no one thanks you more than she does.  You stole her voice, which some may think a pity, but I don’t, seeing that I would rather have her in a salon than before the footlights.  Imagine my glory in her!—­she has become half cat!  She moves softly, as if she loved everything she touched; making you throb to feel the little ball of her foot.  Her eyes look steadily, like green jewels before the veil of an Egyptian temple.  Positively, her eyes have grown green—­or greenish!  They were darkish hazel formerly, and talked more of milkmaids and chattering pastorals than a discerning master would have wished.  Take credit for the change; and at least I don’t blame you for the tender hollows under the eyes, sloping outward, just hinted...  Love’s mark on her, so that men’s hearts may faint to know that love is known to her, and burn to read her history.  When she is about to speak, the upper lids droop a very little; or else the under lids quiver upward--I know not which.  Take further credit for her manner.  She has now a manner of her own.  Some of her naturalness has gone, but she has skipped clean over the ‘young lady’ stage; from raw girl she has really got as much of the great manner as a woman can have who is not an ostensibly retired dowager, or a matron on a pedestal shuffling the naked virtues and the