through reason but through sheer instinct:  We cannot venture to meet again—­that way.  For I, it seems, am a man like other men except that I lack character; and you are—­you! still unchanged—­with all the mystery of attraction, all the magic force of vitality, all the esoteric subtlety with which you enveloped me the first moment my eyes met yours.

“There was no more reason for it then than there is now; and, as you admit, it was not love—­though, as you also admit, there were moments approaching it.  But nothing can have real being without a basis of reason; and so, whatever it was, it vanished.  This, perhaps, is only the infernal afterglow.

“As for me, I am, as you are, all at sea, self-confidence gone, self-faith lost—­a very humble person, without conceit, dazed, perplexed, but still attempting to steer through toward that safe anchorage which I dared lately to recommend to you.

     “And it is really there, Alixe, despite the fool who recites his
     creed so tritely.

     “All this in attempt to bring order into my own mental confusion;
     and the result is that I have formulated nothing.

“So now I end where I began with that question which answers yours without the faintest suspicion of reproach:  What can you think of such a man as I am?  And in the presence of my second failure your answer must be that you now think what you once thought of him when you first realised that he had failed you, PHILIP SELWYN.”

That very night brought him her reply: 

“Phil, dear, I do not blame you for one instant.  Why do you say you ever failed in anything?  It was entirely my fault.  But I am so happy that you wrote as you did, taking all the blame, which is like you.  I can look into my mirror now—­for a moment or two.

“It is brave of you to be so frank about what you think came over us.  I can discuss nothing, admit nothing; but you always did reason more clearly than I. Still, whatever spell it was that menaced us I know very well could not have threatened you seriously; I know it because you reason about it so logically.  So it could have been nothing serious.  Love alone is serious; and it sometimes comes slowly, sometimes goes slowly; but if you desire it to come quickly, close your eves!  And if you wish it to vanish, reason about it!

     “We are on very safe ground again, Phil; you see we are making
     little epigrams about love.

“Rosamund is impatient—­it’s a symphony concert, and I must go—­the horrid little cynic!—­I half believe she suspects that I’m writing to you and tearing off yards of sentiment.  It is likely I’d do that, isn’t it!—­but I don’t care what she thinks.  Besides, it behooves her to be agreeable, and she knows that I know it does! Voila!

     “By the way, I saw Mrs. Gerard’s pretty ward at the theatre last
     night—­Miss Erroll.  She certainly is stunning—­”