"What can be the benefit of
it? How can the fact of our writing or not writing be of importance?
Do you think I shall ever relinquish Lucia? I am resigned to wait as
long as must be, but I am utterly determined to have her in the
end."
To which my father had answered grimly with a smile,--
"Very well, my dear Victor, see that you get her!"
Which remark had made me grind my teeth and then laugh and shrug my
shoulders.
"And you won't permit a letter a month?"
"No."
"Oh, dressed in your little brief authority!" I thought, looking at
him. Then I said--
"Very good--I agree."
"I consider I have your word that you will not write, nor hear from
her, directly or indirectly, within this year?"
"Certainly you have."
And so the matter was settled.
When Lucia heard of it, we met each other's eyes, and she elevated
her eyebrows, and a faint smile curved her lips.
"It will make no difference," she murmured, and nothing more.
After all, I don't know that I cared very greatly about the letters.
It was Lucia herself that I wanted--nothing less. It gives me very
little pleasure to read a letter, and I never have understood the
cherishing locks of hair and dead roses business.
The desire for the presence of the living personality is too sharp-
edged to let me feel satisfaction in substitutory objects and vague
associations.
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