and i suppose it is mixed up with all this that i could not make love easily and naturally to rachel. i could not write love-letters to her. there is a burlesque quality in these scruples, i know, seeing that i was now resolved to marry her, but that is the quality, that is the mixed texture of life. we overcome the greater things and are conscience-stricken by the details.

i wouldn't, even at the price of losing her—and i was now passionately anxious not to lose her—use a single phrase of endearment that did not come out of me almost in spite of myself. at any rate i would not cheat her. and my offer of marriage when at last i sent it to her from chicago was, as i remember it, almost business-like. i atoned soon enough for that arid letter in ten thousand sweet words that came of themselves to my lips. and she paid me at any rate in my own coin when she sent me her answer by cable, the one word "yes."

and indeed i was already in love with her long before i wrote. it was only a dread of giving her a single undeserved cheapness that had held me back so long. it was that and the perplexity that mary still gripped my feelings; my old love for her was there in my heart in spite of my new passion for rachel, it was blackened perhaps and ruined and changed but it was there. it was as if a new crater burnt now in the ampler circumference of an old volcano, which showed all the more desolate and sorrowful and obsolete for the warm light of the new flames....

how impatiently i came home! thoughts of england i had not dared to think for three long years might now do what they would in me. i dreamt of the surrey hills and the great woods of burnmore park, of the changing skies and stirring soft winds of our grey green motherland. there was fog in the irish sea, and we lost the better part of a day hooting our way towards liverpool while i fretted about the ship with all my luggage packed, staring at the grey waters that weltered under the mist. it was the longest day in my life. my heart was full of desire, my eyes ached for the little fields and golden october skies of england, england that was waiting to welcome me back from my exile with such open arms. i was coming home,—home.

i hurried through london into surrey and in my father's study, warned by a telegram, i found a bright-eyed, resolute young woman awaiting me, with the quality about her of one who embarks upon a long premeditated adventure. and i found too a family her sisters and her brother all gladly ready for me, my father too was a happy man, and on the eighth of november in 1906 rachel and i were married in the little church at shere. we stayed for a week or so in hampshire near ringwood, the season was late that year and the trees still very beautiful; and then we went to portofino on the ligurian coast.

there presently gidding joined us and we began to work out the schemes we had made in america, the schemes that now fill my life.