"It is best for us both that I should not see you any more, at least at present. I feel that I have done you a great wrong. I dare not say much to you, for fear of making that wrong greater. I cannot, I need not tell you how I despise myself now--how I long to make you any amends in my power. If ever I can be of any service to you, I do hope that nothing which has passed will hinder you from applying to me. You will not believe how it pains me to write this; how should you? I don't deserve that you should believe anything I say. I must seem heartless to you; I have been, I am heartless. I hardly know what I am writing. I shall long all my life to hear good news of you. I don't ask you to pardon me, but if you can prevail on yourself not to send back the enclosed, and will keep it as a small remembrance of one who is deeply sorry for the wrong he has done you, but who cannot and will not say he is sorry he ever met you, you will be adding another to the many kindnesses which I have to thank you for, and which I shall never forget." Hardy read it over several times, as Tom watched impatiently, unable to make out anything from his face. "What do you think? You don't think there's anything wrong in it, I hope?" "No, indeed, my dear fellow. I really think it does you credit. I don't know what else you could have said very well, only--" "Only what?" "Couldn't you have made it a little shorter?" "No, I couldn't; but you don't mean that. What did you mean by that 'only'?" "Why, I don't think this letter will end the business; at least, I'm afraid not." "But what more could I have said?" "Nothing _more_, certainly; but couldn't you have keep a little quieter--it's difficult to get the right word--a little cooler, perhaps. Couldn't you have made the part about not seeing her again a little more decided?" "But you said I needn't pretend I didn't care for her." "Did I?" "Yes. Besides, it would have been a lie." "I don't want you to tell a lie, certainly. But how about this 'small remembrance' that you speak of? What's that?" "Oh, nothing; only a little locket I bought for her." "With some of your hair in it?" "Well of course. Come now, there's no harm in that." "No; no harm. Do you think she will wear it?" "How can I tell?" "It may make her think it isn't all at an end, I'm afraid. If she always wears your hair--" "By Jove, you're too bad, Hardy. I wish you had had to write it yourself. It's all very easy to pull my letter to pieces, I dare say, but--" "I didn't want to read it, remember." "No more you did. I forgot. But I wish you would just write down now what you would have said." "Yes, I think I see myself at it. By the way, of course you have sent your letter?" "Yes, I sent it off before chapel." "I thought so. In that case I don't think we need trouble ourselves further with the form of the document." "Oh, that's only shirking. How do you know I may not want it for the next occasion?"