But he was terribly afraid of Amelia Roper.
He wandered about through the old Manor woods very ill at ease.

The post from Guestwick went out at seven, and he must at once make up his mind whether or no he would write to Amelia on that day.

He must also make up his mind as to what he would say to her.

He felt that he should at least answer her letter, let his answer be what it might.
Should he promise to marry her,--say, in ten or twelve years' time?
Should he tell her that he was a blighted being, unfit for love, and with humility entreat of her that he might be excused?
Or should he write to her mother, telling her that Burton Crescent would not suit him any longer, promising her to send the balance on receipt of his next payment, and asking her to send his clothes in a bundle to the Income-tax Office?
Or should he go home to his own mother, and boldly tell it all to her?
He at last resolved that he must write the letter, and as he composed it in his mind he sat himself down beneath an old tree which stood on a spot at which many of the forest tracks met and crossed each other.
The letter, as he framed it here, was not a bad letter, if only he could have got it written and posted.

Every word of it he chose with precision, and in his mind he emphasised every expression which told his mind clearly and justified his purpose.