our own upon the occasion of O'Meara's death, but that for once I came
into your region of shades and terrors. I was like one on the point of
dissolution, and almost my soul escaped into your dim habitation. From
your letters I had already learned how near together love and death stood
in your consciousness. Each is an exit through which your spirit is ever
ready to pass. And for the moment, crowded in with skeleton shadows there,
you seemed sensibly near me. I was divided between fear and love. But the
blood of life in me always triumphs,--and then it was that I made my first
flight in consciousness from you. I kissed my hand to the twilight and
ran! I am sure you were there, Philip, a cold-lipped spirit-lover seeking
my mortal life. And, oh my Heart! is it wrong that I would love and be
loved in the flesh? I do not object to spirituality, only it must have a
visible presence and a warm cheek.

P. S.--But, dear Philip, how am I to reconcile this tender charity to Jack
with your anti-humanitarian views? Is a man's heart so divided from his
philosophy? Or do you intend to make a mystic of that poor child, so that
he may escape the woes of his condition? I am curious to see what you will
do with him. Also, I shall certainly defend him against your Nirvana
doctrines if I suspect you of juggling with his soul.

XXVII

PHILIP TO JESSICA

DEAR, TEASING, RARE JESSICA:

I have so many things to say to you. First of all, why do you blame me for
my "foreknowledge"? You scold me for my hostility to the sentimentalism of
the day, you scold me then for any act of common human sympathy, and now
you take me to task because I foresee how you will address me in a letter.
Dear me, what a horrid little scold it is! I wonder you didn't quote _The
Raven_,--

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or
devil!"

But really no great powers of prophecy were required. Have you forgotten
that in the very letter before this one you called me "Dear Philip"? And
wasn't that a good index of your tempestuous, contradictory sweet self,
that you should have begun your letter "My dear Mr. Philip Towers" and
then thrown in your "Dear Philip" by the way, as if it would not be
observed! Why, my naughty Jessica, when I came to that phrase, I just took
my longest, biggest blue pencil and put a ring about it so that I might
find it at a moment's notice and feast my eyes a thousand thousand times
on its sweet familiarity. D