thought—and why was she watching if she did not still love him?
"But it isn't that which impels me to write to you. As time drifts on and there is more time for understanding of the tragedy that overtook our love, there are some things that it seems I must tell you. Do you mind if I hurt you a little while I tell them? Things that you ought to know, George, because sometime, somewhere, again, you will be trying to make a woman happy, and I don't want you to make the old mistake."
Sometime—somewhere—a woman! The inference inevitable from the form of this allusion was chilling. He shuddered as if a polar blast had struck him but—he read on:
"Some things I thought were vices in you, George, have come to look like virtues since I've seen so much of other men. But I think for one item, that as a lover, George, you put too much trust in material things. You wanted to give your wife a mountain of concrete and steel when she would rather have had arose. You ordered wagon-loads of flowers sent to me in those five years, George, but I never appreciated all of them as much as if you had stopped your car by the roadside and gathered a handful of daisies and brought them to me. But you never did that.
