amusing mondain en villégiature, and was here, in London, for a short time—three weeks or so, before going north to spend the summer at Kirkory, her husband's family seat or home. Where was Mr. Cholmeley?
I started:
'Dead!'
'That could not be.… And yet' I took out her letter and considered it. '"You know that—if for no other reason than because you were loved by what I loved best" (Nay, that may be nothing: or only mean that she loves her husband best. And there is no black edge on this white sheet.) "by what I loved best in the world,—you are and always must be dear to me: and so let me write myself down as being, etc., etc."'
All at once I exclaimed:
'She oughtn't to have married that man!'
'… Why?' asked the faint voice of the air and the room.
I answered to myself: 'I wish she hadn't.'
'… Why? ' said the same faint voice.
I considered a few moments, and then rose, a little viciously. Some of the viciousness was expended in the sharp putting of my chair directly in front of my plate; the rest in my casting myself into the arm-chair in the window, my hands at my mouth, scraping my lower lip with my upper teeth.
Then:
'What is the matter with me?' I said to myself; and, after a pause: 'I don't know! Is there anything, then, in the whole world would make me happy? I don't know. I don't think so. I'm just weary of it all! What of that new soul's life of mine, produced before Starkie, and believed in then? What have I done? What shall I do? What do I believe in? What do I doubt about?—Doubt about? Everything; even doubt!'—I let my thoughts rest for a moment.
Then once more:
'If I only knew something! If I only loved something! Oh, is there not a woman in the whole wide world who would take me as I am, and help me to be
