Page:The Yellow Book - 08.djvu/72

To me she is the riddle—shall I say, of my life? I almost think that, without exaggeration, without affectation, I may call her so, for it is more than unlikely now that I shall ever know the answer. Oh, of course, you may say that she has answered it herself, and in the roughest black-and-white, the worst, the bluntest of type . . . for you saw, no doubt, as I did, that announcement in the morning's paper, that hateful, incredible juxtaposition of names: "Ruthven—Silverdale." . . .

But, you see, I can't get that look out of my thoughts, that flutter of the wings of her strange, sweet, mistaken soul . . . and I think, I can't help thinking, that Lucille has written out her Apology to the last word. . . .

And, in the name of Reason, what was the meaning of it all? Oh, it sets my heart aching—but it makes me angry too . . . it seems as if—as if—it seems (confound it!) as if I had had something given to me to do—and hadn't done it. . . .

What do you think? I hardly hoped you would understand, you know . . . but perhaps you do, and—do you think I could have done anything? do you feel as if it had been, in any way, my fault? It seems a preposterous, a presumptuous notion . . . but is there anything in it, do you think? . . . I suppose it is useless to expect you to answer.