But you never gave me any reason to think—and I never dreamed of thinking anything like _that_ when you were here. It never occurred to me. It would not occur to me now except for your very beautiful letters—so unlike you—so strangely sad, so whimsical, so skillful in wonderful phrases that they’re like those vague prose poems you sent me, which hint enough to awaken your imagination and set you aflame with curiosity. But you _can’t_ mean that you’re in love with me. I should be too astonished. Besides, I shouldn’t know what to do about it. It wouldn’t seem real. I never have thought of you in such a way. What makes a girl fall in love? Do you know? Could she fall in love with a man through his letters because they are so beautiful and sad and elusive, so full of charm and mystery? I’m in love with _them_. But, Jim, I don’t know what to think about you. I’d have to see you again, first, anyway. You are such a dear boy! I can’t seem to think of you that way. You know it’s a different kind of love, ours. All I can think about it is the tremendous surprise—if it’s true. But I don’t believe it is. You are lonely; you miss dad—miss me, perhaps. I think you do miss me, for the first time in your life. You see, I have rather a clear mind and memory, and I can’t help remembering that when you were here you certainly could not have felt that way toward me; so how can you now? I did bore you sometimes. Anyway, I adore you with all my heart, as you know. My affection hasn’t changed one bit since I was a tiny girl and came into your room that day and saw you down on the floor unpacking your suit-case. I adored you instantly. I have not changed. Girls don’t change. Another letter from her some months later: You’re such a funny boy—just a boy, still, while in these six months I’ve overtaken and passed you in years. You won’t believe it, but I have. Maturity has overtaken me. I am really a real woman. Why are your letters vaguely reproachful? Have I done anything? Were you annoyed when I asked you whether you meant me to take them as love letters? You didn’t write for a month after that. Did I scare you? You _are_ funny! I do really think you _are_ in love—not with me, Jim—not with any other particular girl—but just in love with love. Writers and artists and poets are inclined to that sort of thing, I fancy. That’s what worries me about myself; I am not inclined that way; I don’t seem to be artistic enough in temperament to pay any attention to sentiment of that sort. I don’t desire it; I don’t miss it; it simply is not an item in the list of things that interest me. But of all things in the world, I do adore friendship. I had an afternoon off from the hospital the other day—I’m still a probationer in a pink and white uniform, you know—and I went up to town and flew about the shops and lunched with a college friend, Helen Davis, at the Ritz and had a wonderful time.