And I—I was overwhelmed, penetrated, by a distress, by an emotion, such as I had never known before. I looked at her through a sort of mist—of pain, of passion; with a kind of aching helplessness; longing to say something, to do something, I could not tell what. Her smile had faded out; her face was white, set; her eyes were sombre. I looked at her, I longed to say something, to do something, and I could not move or speak. My mind was all a whirl, a bewilderment—till, somehow, gradually, from some place in the background of it, her name, her Christian name, struggled forward into consciousness. I seemed to see it before me, like a written word, her name, Gabrielle. And then I heard myself calling it. “Gabrielle! Gabrielle!” I heard my voice, I found myself kneeling beside her, holding her hands, speaking close to her face. “Gabrielle! I can’t let you—I can’t allow you to think such things. Your life futile! Your beautiful, beautiful life! Gabrielle—my love! Oh, my love, my love!”... By-and-by, laughing, sobbing, her eyes melting with a heavenly tenderness, she said, “It’s absurd, it’s impossible. You’re only a boy. I’m a woman. I’m seven years older than you—in years. I’m immeasurably older in everything else. But I can’t help it—I love you. You’re only a boy—and yet—you’re such an honest, frank, sweet boy—and my life has been passed with such artificial people, such unreal people—you’re the only man I have ever known.” The next morning one of her servants brought me a letter. Here it is. “Dearest Friend,—Please do not come to see me this afternoon. I shall not be at home. I am leaving town. I am going to the Convent of Saint Veronica; I shall pass Lent there, with the good sisters. “Dearest, do not be angry with me. I cannot accept your love, I have no right to accept it. Our friendship, our companionship, has been infinitely precious to me; it has given me a belief in human nature which I never had before. But you are young, you are still growing—in mind, in spirit. You must be free. I cannot cramp your youth, your growth, by accepting your love. Look, my dear, it would be an impasse. We could not marry. It would be monstrous if I should let you marry me—at the end of a year, at the end of six months, you would hate me, you would feel that I had spoiled your life. Yes, it is true. You must be free—you must grow. You must not handicap yourself at twenty-two by marrying a woman seven years your senior. “Well, what then? Nothing but this—I must not accept your love, dear, I must give you up. You will go on, on; you will grow, you will outgrow the love you bear me now. You will live your life. And some day you will meet a woman of your own age.