"You don't understand. I can't just now explain. Be
patient with me. Leave things a little while to me." She wrote.
I would talk aloud to these notes and wrangle over them in my
workroom--while the plans of Lord Roberts B waited.
"You don't give me a chance!" I would say. "Why don't you let me
know the secret? That's what I'm for--to settle difficulties! to tell
difficulties to!"
And at last I could hold out no longer against these accumulating
pressures.
I took an arrogant, outrageous line that left her no loopholes; I
behaved as though we were living in a melodrama.
"You must come and talk to me," I wrote, "or I will come and take you. I
want you--and the time runs away."
We met in a ride in the upper plantations. It must have been early in
January, for there was snow on the ground and on the branches of the
trees. We walked to and fro for an hour or more, and from the first I
pitched the key high in romance and made understandings impossible. It
was our worst time together. I boasted like an actor, and she, I know
not why, was tired and spiritless.
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