Letters of Two Brides

In a word, I was naughty, and I have not got the reward such

naughtiness brings. No, dear, however sweet the memory of that

half-hour beneath the trees, it is nothing like the excitement of the

old time with its: "Shall I go? Shall I not go? Shall I write to him?

Shall I not write?" Is it thus with all our pleasures? Is suspense always better than

enjoyment? Hope than fruition? Is it the rich who in very truth are

the poor? Have we not both perhaps exaggerated feeling by giving to

imagination too free a rein? There are times when this thought freezes

me.

Shall I tell you why? Because I am meditating another visit to the

bottom of the garden--without Griffith. How far could I go in this

direction? Imagination knows no limit, but it is not so with pleasure.

Tell me, dear be-furbelowed professor, how can one reconcile the two

goals of a woman's existence?