orbid, as unreasonable as I please. She understands; she's been there
herself. But no mere man--

"Suppose my letters were insufferably flat and tame, what a position for
the Lonely Fellow to find himself bound to reply in kind! He ought
seriously to consider this point.

"Then there's my own position, and with myself goes irrevocably Martin,
my brother.

"Am I _quite_ justified in taking up any interest, which must more or
less engross my thoughts, and distract them from what is my real life
work?

"I am all that he has left. He turned to me in his trouble, and I must
always put him first. It's not the easiest thing in the world to live
with a literary man. The readers who praise his books and gush over his
lofty sentiments, would be surprised if they could live in the house for
a week, and listen to his flow of language over such a trifle, as, say,
a banging door! For the last eight years all my time, and all my
thought, have been devoted to the effort of pleasing Martin, and,--(one
can acknowledge things on paper more easily than in words!)--it isn't a
brilliant success!

"I thought that it was; no! I didn't think at all, I just complacently
took it for granted that he was very lucky to have me, and that I made
him as happy and comfortable as he possibly could be under the
circumstances, but just lately I've had an awakening.

"He _isn't_ happy; he isn't even content. I've been quite an efficient
Martha, but the Mary role seems to have been neglected, and we are
growing apart, rather than together. That must be stopped! I must give
more thought to him; not less.

"I am all he has left. I should be false to my trust if I deliberately
undertook anything which would separate me from Martin by so much as a
thought.

"Are you fine enough, honest enough, _man_ enough, to acknowledge that
I'm right, and to respect my decision?

"Lonely Man! I ought not to begin a regular correspondence with you.
Just occasionally, perhaps, I might write; for Christmas, or Easter, or
your birthday, and to receive a letter in reply would make a break in my
life, which as you so blightingly remark begins to show symptoms of
`cramp.' (How could my letters be `so delightful' if they were
`cramped'?) The very first thing you must do is to explain just how,
and in what way, you discern in me the fatal growth! I'm so down upon
it in other people; I imagined myself so immaculately free! The least
you can do is to warn me