"Your letter arrived this morning at breakfast-time. Geoffrey said: 'Who's it from?', and I said: 'It's from Terry, saying he's arrived safely and is settling down.' Then he said 'Good!' in a loud voice, and I felt I wanted to knife him for saying 'good' when everything was so bad.... Terry, it's almost killing me to think that I could have had you that last night if only I had had the courage. I wish to God I _had_ had, but what's the good of that to me now? Terry, there _were_ difficulties--money and so on--and you oughtn't to have thought I didn't love you enough, just because I didn't agree straightway. I love you enough for _anything_, and I know it now that you've gone.... I just feel I can't endure it--it's inhuman of you to give me no second chance--and yet you always were like that, I know. Everything or nothing--and now, I suppose, it's nothing.... What you say about being sorry shows how different you are; _I'm_ not sorry, except that I didn't seize the chance when it was offered me...." And as a postscript the single sentence: "I don't think I can ever _live_ without you, and you know what I mean by _living_, don't you?" The third and last letter was the longest. Dated almost exactly a calendar month after Terry's departure, it began: "Your letter made me feel that I shall never want to write to you again, and if, as you threaten, you don't reply to this, I certainly shan't. What sort of a man are you that you can change so quickly? Your letter might have been written by a parson--or did you, perhaps, get some parson to collaborate with you? Please let me inform you that the old Terry that I loved, and that I love still, was the only man on earth who could ever have made me 'live usefully,' and that the new Terry, with his moralisings and platitudes, only makes me feel I want to go straight to the Devil. How _dare_ you mention Geoffrey's career as a reason why _I_ should sacrifice my happiness? And even June--what has _she_ got to do with it? I suppose you think that the 'che-ild' comes in rather usefully, or else your parson collaborator put you up to the idea.... As for your work--devote yourself to it by all means, but why should you try to make me believe that you can't have more than _one_ thing in life? My advice to you (since you have given yours so plentifully to me) is to marry some Viennese girl who loves you and is also a business woman--someone who'll stop you from making an utter fool of yourself. I go white with rage when I read over parts of your letter. What do you mean by saying that love dies soon when the mind is occupied by work? Does _yours_? _Mine_ doesn't. And what do you mean by talking of your great sin? There _was_ no sin, and if what might have been is a sin, then it was I and not you who stopped short of it. Not that I want any credit for that.... I can't understand you. I can't understand how you could behave as you did that night and then, a month later, send me a sermon.