"Dear, whether it's all to end here or not, let me write this once without thinking of anything but you and me. I have written to your father asking his permission to ask you to marry me. To you I want to say that I love you, love you, love you--and I have never loved anyone else. That's part of my punishment for--I don't know what exactly. Playing with fire, I suppose. Dear--can you love me? Ever since I met you at Long Barton" (Pause: what about Miss Van Tromp? Nothing, nothing, nothing!) "I've not thought of anything but you. I want you for my very own. There is no one like you, my love, my Princess.
"You'll write to me. Even if you don't care a little bit you'll write. Dear, I hardly dare hope that you care, but I daren't fear that you don't. I shall count the minutes till I get your answer. I feel like a schoolboy.
"Dear it's my very heart I'm sending you here. If I didn't love you, love you, love you I could write a better letter, tell you better how I love you. Write now. You will write?
"Did someone tell you something or write you something that made you go away? It's not true, whatever it is. Nothing's true, but that I want you. As I've never wanted anything. Let me see you. Let me tell you. I'll explain everything--if anyone has been telling lies.
"If you don't care enough to write, I don't care enough to go on living. Oh, my dear Dear, all the words and phrases have been used up before. There's nothing new to say, I know. But what's in my heart for you--that's new, that's all that matters--that and what your heart might hold for me. Does it? Tell me. If I can't have your love, I can't bear my life. And I won't.--You'll think this letter isn't like me. It isn't, I know. But I can't help it. I am a new man: and you have made me. Dear,--can't you love the man you've made? Write, write, write!
"Yours--as I never thought I could be anyone's, "Eustace Vernon."
"It's too long," he said, "most inartistic, but I won't re-write it. Contemptible ass! If she cares it won't matter. If she doesn't, it won't matter either."
And that was the letter that lay in the locked drawer for a week. And through that week the watching for the postman went on--went on. And the enquiries, mechanically.
And no answer came at all, to either of his letters. Had the Concierge deceived him? Had she really no address to which to send the letter?