What would happen? No lake, or mountain
climb, was possible--but see her he must. After that kiss--that
divine, enthralling, undreamed-of kiss. What did it mean? Did she
love him? He loved her, that was certain. The poor feeble emotion he
had experienced for Isabella was completely washed out and gone now.
He felt horribly ashamed of himself when he thought about it. His
parents were perfectly right, of course; they had known best, and
fortunately Isabella had not perhaps believed him, and was not a
person of deep feeling anyway.
But the extreme discomfort of the thought of her made him toss in his
bed. What ought he to do? Rush away from Lucerne? To what good? The
die was cast, and in any case he was not bound to Isabella in any
way. But at least he ought to write to her and tell her he had made a
mistake. That was the only honest thing to do. A terrible duty, and
he must brace himself up to accomplish it.
He breakfasted in his sitting-room, his thoughts scourging him the
while, and afterwards, with a bulldog determination, he faced the
writing-table and began.
He tore up at least three sheets to start with--no Greek lines of
punishment in his boyhood had ever appeared such a task as this. He
found himself scribbling profiles on the paper, chiselled profiles
with inky hair--but no words would come.
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