The desire to see Godwin took such hold upon her, that she had already begun to think over the wording of another note to be sent to him the first thing in the morning.  His reply had been insufficient:  simple justice required that she should hear him in his own defence before parting with him for ever.  If she kept silence, he would always remember her with bitterness, and this would make her life-long sorrow harder to bear.  Sidwell was one of those few women whose love, never demonstrative, never exigent, only declares itself in all its profound significance when it is called upon to pardon.  What was likely to be the issue of a meeting with Godwin she could not foresee.  It seemed all but impossible for their intercourse to continue, and their coming face to face might result in nothing but distress to both, better avoided; yet judgment yielded to emotion.  Yesterday—­only yesterday—­she had yielded herself to the joy of loving, and before her consciousness had had time to make itself familiar with its new realm, before her eyes had grown accustomed to the light suddenly shed about her, she was bidden to think of what had happened as only a dream.  Her heart refused to make surrender of its hope.  Though it could be held only by an encouragement of recognised illusion, she preferred to dream yet a little longer.  Above all, she must taste the luxury of forgiving her lover, of making sure that her image would not dwell in his mind as that of a self-righteous woman who had turned coldly from his error, perhaps from his repentance.

A little after midnight, she rose from bed, slipped on her dressing-gown, and sat down by the still burning lamp to write what her passion dictated: 

’Why should you distrust my ability, or my willingness to understand you?  It would have been so much better if you had sent what you first wrote.  These few lines do not even let me know whether you think yourself to blame.  Why do you leave me to form a judgment of things as they appear on the surface?  If you wish to explain, if you sincerely feel that I am in danger of wronging you by misconstruction, come to me as soon as you have received this note.  If you will not come, then at least write to me—­the letter you at first thought of sending.  This afternoon (Friday) I return to London, but you know my address there.  Don’t think because I wrote so briefly that I have judged you.

S. W.’

To have committed this to paper was a relief.  In the morning she would read it over and consider again whether she wished to send it.

On the table lay The Critical.  She opened it once more at the page that concerned her, and glanced over the first few lines.  Then, having put the lamp nearer to the bed, she again lay down, not to sleep but to read.