Oh, pshaw! My Barbara is so sweet, so purely a
thing of heaven that sometimes I--I hate myself for not having been
better--more worthy. Women are so infinitely better than ourselves, or
so infinitely--worse. And she sent you a letter--here it is!"
"A letter? Diana? Where?"
"A snack of ham or beef first, Perry, love letters don't go over-well
on empty stomachs--" But here I caught the letter from him and sat
with it in fingers that shook a little, staring at the superscription.
"Her writing has improved amazingly!" said I.
"Dear fellow," he answered, sharpening the carving knife quite
unnecessarily, "go away and read it, seek some quiet spot and leave me
to eat in peace."
"Thanks, Tony," said I gratefully, and hastened into the next room
forthwith, there to read and re-read the superscription, to commit all
those tender follies natural to lovers and finally to break the seal.
DEAR, DEAR MY PEREGRINE:
Very soon we shall see each other, and this thought makes me tremble
with alternate happiness and dread. Yes, dread, my Peregrine, because
these years have changed me in many ways--oh, shall I please you as I
am now? Will you love me as you did when I was only your humble Diana
of the Silent Places? For Peregrine, you loved me then so very much,
so truly and with such wonderful unselfishness that I am afraid you
may not love the Diana of to-day quite so well as the Diana of two
years ago. But dear Peregrine, know that my heart is quite--quite
unchanged; you will always be the one man of all others, the Peregrine
whose generous love lifted me high above my girlish dreams but never
oh, never any higher than his own heart.
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