Perhaps it is just as well. Even if I were
to meet him now, I shouldn't make the attempt again. I confess to feeling
a little hurt, but I thoroughly understand him. He is one of those
men--you meet them now and again--survivals from the old school--with a
sense of rectitude so exact that they can only see in a straight line. It
is all right. Don't think that I complain. It is almost as much for his
sake as for my own that I wish he could have taken what I call a more
comprehensive view of me. I know he suffers--and I shall never be able to
tell him how sorry I am till we get into the kingdom of heaven. In fact, I
can't explain anything to any one, except you, which must be an excuse for
my long letters. I try to keep you posted in what I'm going through, so
that you may convey as much or as little of it as you think fit to Evie. I
can't tell her much, and I see from the little notes she writes me that
she doesn't yet understand.
"The cat seems to be quite out of the bag in the office, though I haven't
said a word to any one, and I know Mr. Jarrott wouldn't. Pride and sore
feeling will keep him from ever speaking of me again, except when he can't
help it.
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