uncontrollability of his modernism--that is, at least, by what was incalculable beforehand, the exhibition of the way in which "they" were going to take it. The whole effect of my story is exactly his disconcerted and practically defeated face-to-faceness with the way in which they do take it--a matter, a fact, an appearance, that gives me all I want for accounting for his deflection. Thus is our having, his having, everything _en double_ regulated and exhibited: he is doing over what the other fellow has done (though it acts for the other persons in it as if it were the first time--this quite all right, though not looking so at first)--and that accordingly hangs together and stands firm. Therefore accordingly my start, a little above, at being what I there for a moment called disconcerted and defeated was groundless: I was going on perfectly straight and right--and am now doing so again. To repeat, accordingly, I get my full right to deal as by a free hand with that little historic truth of the girl's concealed sentiment for the other fellow, accompanied with her equal consciousness that he doesn't and can't and won't care for her a bit: at least in the same way. This revolution that has taken place for her--and well before the scène--of Ralph's differing so from the 1820 man--in short, in short. Note what occurs to me as to the question or no of whether the portrait, the portrait _in_ the house in 1910, is done from Ralph in 1820 or not, done from Ralph himself, or accounted for, as coming into existence afterwards. _The_ thing, at this ragged edge, is to keep hold of the clue, as tight as possible, that I have grabbed for my solution in the line of her _making_ the sacrifice; making it all with a sublime intelligence _for_ him, on account of what he has told her of his own epoch--which she stares at in her deprivation.