en here talking, talking ... and I did not like to say exactly 'Go
away that I may write.' Mr. Kenyon shortened our time yesterday too by
a whole half-hour or three quarters--the stars are against us. He is
coming on Sunday, however, he says, and if so, Monday will be safe and
clear--and not a word was said after you went, about you: he was in a
good joyous humour, as you saw, and the letter he brought was, oh! so
complimentary to me--I will tell you. The writer doesn't see anything
'in Browning and Turner,' she confesses--'_may_ perhaps with time and
study,' but for the present sees nothing,--only has wide-open eyes of
admiration for E.B.B. ... now isn't it satisfactory to _me_? Do you
understand the full satisfaction of just that sort of thing ... to be
praised by somebody who sees nothing in Shakespeare?--to be found on
the level of somebody so flat? Better the bad-word of the Britannia,
ten times over! And best, to take no thought of bad or good words! ...
except such as I shall have to-night, perhaps! Shall I?

Will you be pleased to understand in the meanwhile a little about the
'risks' I am supposed to run, and not hold to such a godlike
simplicity ('gods and bulls,' dearest!) as you made show of yesterday?
If we two went to the gaming-table, and you gave me a purse of gold to
play with, should I have a right to talk proudly of 'my stakes?' and
would any reasonable person say of both of us playing together as
partners, that we ran 'equal risks'? I trow not--and so do _you_ ...
when you have not predetermined to be stupid, and mix up the rouge and
noir into 'one red' of glorious confusion. What had I to lose on the
point of happiness when you knew me first?--and if now I lose (as I
certainly may according to your calculation) the happiness you have
given me, why still I am your debtor for _the gift_ ... now see! Yet
to bring you down into my ashes ... _that_ has been so intolerable a
possibility to me from the first. Well, perhaps I run _more_ risk than
you, under that one aspect. Certainly I never should forgive myself
again if you were unhappy. 'What had _I_ to do,' I should think, 'with
touching your life?' And if ever I am to think so, I would rather that
I never had known you, seen your face, heard your voice--which is the
uttermost sacrifice and abnegation. I could not say or sacrifice any
more--not even for _you_! _You_, for _you_ ... is all I can!

Since you left me I have been making up my mind to your ha