ite space in my soul that love has made, so real, yet so
holy that I dare not myself lift the veil of consciousness before it? And
all I know is that I shall meet you there finally heart to heart!--Philip,
kiss me! For I am a frightened white-winged stranger in my own new heavens
and new earth. I am no longer as you imagine, simply one, but I have a
foreign power of life and death in me, and the fact terrifies me.

You declare that there is a difference and a distance between a man's love
and a man's mind which account for his dual nature. There is also an
intelligence of the heart, more astute, more vital, which divides woman's
nature also between the abandon of love and the resentment of
understanding. We know, and we do not know, and we _feel_. What we know is
of little consequence, what we feel is written upon the faces of each
succeeding generation. But what we do _not_ know constitutes that element
of mystery in us that makes us also dual. For we feel and suspect further
than we can understand. Thus, your faculty for projecting yourself in
spirit further than I can follow, excites in me a terror of loneliness
that sharpens into resentment. I am widowed by the loss of the higher half
of your entity. Can you not see, Philip, it is not your views I combat,
your theory about humanitarianism and all that? They are but the
geometrical figures of thought in your mind; and I have no wish to disturb
your "philosophic proposition." The point is, I love that in you more than
I love the lover. And the passion with which you cling to it as something
apart from our relationship offends me, excites forebodings. Tell me, are
"philosophic propositions" alien to love? And after all do you think you
are the only one who may claim them? This is a secret,--I have a little
diagram of feminine wisdom hid away from you somewhere, founded upon the
wit of love. And we shall see which lasts the longer, your proposition or
my understanding!

But I must not forget to speak of a matter much more practical just now.
You mentioned the letter that you sent to father,--"The contents you might
imagine even if he did not show it to you." Well, he did not show it to
me, but from the effect it produced upon him I am obliged to infer that it
contained the most iniquitous blasphemies. Philip, I do hope you are not
subject to fits of "righteous indignation!" I could welcome a season of
secular rage in a man as I could a fierce wind in sultry weather, but