o this want, question, agony. It's not
only if I may kill my life--it's what I can do if I don't kill it.
What can I do? Do you feel how that's a sharp, vital question to me?
It's out of the deep I'm calling to you--do you know that? And it's my
voice, but it's the voice of thousands--_now_ you're in trouble. Now
you wish you'd let me alone, for here we are at the woman question! I
can see you shy at that. But I'm not going to pin you, for you only
contracted to help me; I'll shake off the other thousands for the
present. And, anyhow, can you help me? Oh, you have--you've delayed
my--crime, I suppose it is. You've given me glimpses of vistas; you've
set me reading books; widened every sort of horizon; you've even made
me dream of a vague, possible work, for me. Yes, I've been dreaming
that; a specific thing which I might do, even I, if I could cancel some
house-parties, and a trip to France, and the hunting. But even if I
could possibly give up those things, there's Uncle Ted. He's not well,
and my dream would involve leaving him. And I'm all he has. We two
are startlingly alone. After all, you see, it's a dream; I'm not big
enough to do more than that--dream idly. Robin has a queer scheme just
now. There's a bone-ologist here, the most famous one of the planet,
exported from France, to cure the small son of one of the trillionaires
with which this place reeks, and Robin insists that I see that
bone-ologist about my bones. It's unpleasant, and I hate doctors and I
don't know if I will. But Robin is very firm and insists on my telling
Uncle Ted otherwise. I can't bother Uncle Ted. So I may do it. Yet,
if the great man pronounced, as he would, that the other doctors were
right, it would be almost going through the first hideous shock over
again. So I may _not_ do it. I must stop writing. I have a guest and
must do a party for her. She's a California heiress--oh fabulously
rich--much richer than I. With splendid bones. I gave her a dance
last night and this morning she's off on my best hunter with my
fiance--save the mark! He admires her, and she certainly is a nice
girl, and lovely to look at, with eyes like those young mediaeval,
brainless Madonnas. I'm so glad to have someone else play with
him--with Alec. I dread him so. I hate, I _hate_ to let him--kiss me.
There. If you were a real man I couldn't have exploded into that.
You're only the spirit of a thunder-storm, you know; I'll never se