"Dear Isabella," he wrote at last. No--"My dear Isabella," then he
paused and bit the pen. "I feel I ought to tell you something has
happened to me. I see my parents were right when--" "Oh! dash it all,"
he said to himself, "it's a beastly sneaking thing to do to put it
like that," and he scratched the paragraph out and began again. "I
have made a mistake in my feelings for you; I know now that they were
those of a brother--" "O Lord, what am I to say next, it does sound
bald, this!" The poor boy groaned and ran his hands through his curly
hair, then seized the pen again, and continued--"as such I shall love
you always, dear Isabella. Please forgive me if I have caused you any
pain. It was all my fault, and I feel a beastly cad.--Your very
unhappy PAUL."
This was not a masterpiece! but it would have to do. So he copied it
out on a fresh piece of paper. Then, when it was all finished and
addressed he ran down and posted it himself in the hall, with some of
the emotions Alexander may have experienced when he burnt his ships.
The clock struck eleven. At what time would he see the
lady--_his_ lady he called her now. Some instinct told him she
did not wish the hotel people to be aware of their acquaintance. He
felt it wiser not to send a note. He must wait and hope.
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