“Julian,” I said, “I can’t write to her. You need neither say that I’m a blackguard nor that you’re sorry for us both. At this present moment I’ve no more affection for Margaret than I have for this chair. When precisely I left off caring for her I don’t know. Why I ever thought I loved her I don’t know, either. But ever since I came to London all the love I did have for her has been ebbing away every day.” “Had you met many people before you met her?” asked Julian slowly. “No one that counted. Not a woman that counted, that’s to say. I am shy with women. I can talk to them in a sort of way, but I never seem able to get intimate. Margaret was different. She saved my life, and we spent the summer in Guernsey together.” “And you seriously expected not to fall in love?” Julian laughed “My dear Jimmy, you ought to write a psychological novel.” “Possibly. But, in the meantime, what am I to do?” Julian stood up. “She’s in love with you, I suppose?” “Yes.” He stood looking at me. “Well, can’t you speak?” I said. He turned away, shrugging his shoulders. “One’s got one’s own right and one’s own wrong,” he grumbled, lighting his pipe. “I know what you’re thinking,” I said. He would not look at me. “You’re thinking,” I went on, “what a cad I am not to have written that letter.” I sat down resting my head on my hands. After all—love and liberty—they’re both very sweet. “I’m thinking,” said Julian, watching the smoke from his pipe abstractedly, “that you will probably write tonight; and I think I know how you’re feeling.” “Julian,” I said, “must it be tonight? Why? The letter shall go. But must it be tonight?” Julian hesitated. “No,” he said; “but you’ve made up your mind, so why put off the inevitable?” “I can’t,” I exclaimed; “oh, I really can’t. I must have my freedom a little longer.” “You must give it up some day. It’ll be all the harder when you’ve got to face it.” “I don’t mind that. A little more freedom, just a little; and then I’ll tell her to come to me.” He smoked in silence. “Surely,” I said, “this little more freedom that I ask is a small thing compared with the sacrifice I have promised to make?” “You won’t let her know it’s a sacrifice?” “Of course not. She shall think that I love her as I used to.” “Yes, you ought to do that,” he said softly. “Poor devil,” he added. “Am I too selfish?” I asked. He got up to go. “No,” he said. “To my mind, you’re entitled to a breathing space before you give up all that you love best. But there’s a risk.” “Of what?” “Of her finding out by some other means than yourself and before your letter comes, that the letter should have been written earlier. Do you sign all your stuff with your own name?” “Yes.” “Well, then, she’s bound to see how you’re getting on. She’ll see your name in the magazines, in newspapers and in books. She’ll know you don’t write for nothing, and she’ll make calculations.” I was staggered. “You mean—?” I said.