Then we discussed the third and most extraordinary of the three letters. What sort of stuff must Terry have sent her to have evoked such a stinging reply? I suggested that he might have deliberately written her a rather caddish letter in order to kill her love for him, but Mizzi thought he wasn't calculating or clever enough for that. "I think," she said, "that he was perfectly sincere. He _did_ think, then, that love would die when the mind was occupied by work. He _did_ think that he had committed a sin, and that his love for her had been just a passion.... I think he meant every word of what he wrote." "It's a pity we can't _see_ his letter," I said, but she replied: "I don't think I want to see it. I feel I know what it would be like. Rather stiff and--and awful ... can't you imagine it?" I tried to, but I'm afraid I hadn't, and never have had, her clairvoyant knowledge of Terry. I went on to explain the difficulties he was in, and how he felt responsible for the trouble between Helen and her husband, as well as for my quarrel with Helen, and Severn's "affair" in Buda-Pesth, and Heaven knew what else. "He's in a mood to take upon himself responsibility for all the suffering in the world," I said, "and it would be comic if it wasn't tragic. Everything is _his_ fault--nothing anybody else's." She said: "I can so easily believe that. He has a spirit in him--that makes him try to do perfect things--and then blames him when they aren't _quite_ perfect...." We were silent for a while, and then she went on: "All through the time I haf known him he has been like that--trying for the perfect goal and flogging himself because he couldn't reach it.... He would have made a great saint--in the Middle Ages ... but not to-day." She smiled as she added: "I remember when he taught me English--he taught me as if I were a sinner, and English the true faith...." We talked on for a while about what we could do to help him, but at the end of it all only a few desirabilities emerged--that he should take a long holiday and make more friends and work less hard. As we shook hands at the foot of the stairs she said: "It iss so hard to help people who will not haf what they want. If only I could write to this Helen and ask her to come to him! Or if only some fate would send him back to her! ... But no--he will not haf what he wants. Nor will he want what he could haf.... He iss born to be _unglücklich_...." XI Sunday. Terry looked better in the morning; I asked him if he had slept well, and he replied: "Oh, yes, I was so very tired after last night.... _Last night_! Doesn't it seem years away? And isn't it comfortable to be back here?" "Yes," I agreed. "Mizzi has a genius for making things comfortable." He seemed surprised at my mentioning her. "I suppose it _is_ Mizzi," he said, after a pause, and seemed to ponder over the matter.