told my father that you wanted to marry me, and he said you were too young for me. You were only twenty-two, and I was twenty-three. He persuaded you to make the Grand Tour before settling anything. You told him you would not go without speaking to me. And you tried to speak to me—how often you tried!—but we were never left alone in those days. My mother was fearful, for Robert, and Robert was fearful for himself. So there were always interruptions. You were almost maddened by them, and I—I was eating my heart out. If you could only have passed me on the stairs and whispered, 'Marry me!' I would have said 'Yes.' But the chance never came. And I—little fool—was too shy to make it. And then, on the very eve of your Grand Tour, you wrote me this letter.
"I had almost despaired of your ever speaking. I was hurt and miserable. Robert redoubled his efforts. And then one day he came to the house—it was the day he meant to propose, and I knew that my mother meant to receive him with me and then excuse herself, leaving us together. It was the day before you were to go away, and I longed for any word or sign from you.
"You sent this letter, by hand. It reached the house at the same moment that Robert did. He
