It was Conny’s fault. Were it the last drop in the well--I mean, were this my last breath, I should say, “Conny was to blame.” I loved her as fondly as any man can love whose passion is fed by the beauty, but not by the promises, of the adored. Is beauty a good foundation for love? Are the Goodwin Sands a good dry dock for a ship? Beauty inspires passion, but will it create sincerity? Something more than that is wanted, I think. No love lasts that is unrequited. No lamp burns long that isn’t replenished with oil. There are hundreds of verses among the poets illustrative of this, the best of which I might easily quote if I knew where to find them. Don’t say this digression is neither here nor there. It is here and there too. It concerns my sincerity; it vindicates my loyalty. Riding with Theresa on a fragrant and glowing summer evening, we fell to talking about Conny. By this time I had made up my mind to understand that she didn’t mean to answer my letter, and something like a sense of resignation was lodged at the centre of my being. All those tendencies to pull my hair, to neglect my cravat, to write verses against the whole sex, with citric acid in my ink-bottle, were subdued or dead. I had, indeed, my sneerful intervals, but Theresa was always at hand with her beauty for me to forget myself in. How the subject came about I don’t know, but I remember that Theresa asked me if Conny had ever answered my letter. “No,” I answered quickly, clapping my hand, so to speak, over the nerve-pulp her innocent question had laid bare. “I suppose she does not think it worth while to write, as she hopes to meet you shortly.” “That is no excuse,” I answered sternly. “I wrote to her eight, nine days ago, and she _ought_ to have answered me.” Theresa lifted her eyebrows, and thoughtfully patted her horse’s neck. “_You_ would have answered me,” I said. “I always answer the letters I receive.” “If she loved me she would have replied by return of post.” “Oh, you mustn’t rush to severe conclusions. A word will explain everything, no doubt.” “I can imagine no excuse for her silence,” I exclaimed sulkily. “Would I have treated her so? Had I received a letter from her, she would have had my answer before the ink upon her pen was dry. I hate to be neglected. People neglect those they despise. She very well knows how a letter would have gratified me, and nothing but an abominable theory of heartlessness,” I cried, “can account for her neglect.” It was fortunate for my horse that I wore no spurs, or God knows where I should have driven them to, with the violent plunge I gave with my legs as I spoke. “All this is rank heresy,” said Theresa, laughing, “for which, on your return, you will be judged, sentenced, and executed.” “It is galling truth,” I answered; “but if she thinks I care, she is very much mistaken.” “Then let us suppose she cares.”