And rising heavily, he went to it, picked it up, and broke the scented seal.
"Will you misunderstand me, Mr.Berkley?
They say that the pages of friendship are covered with records of misunderstandings.
"We _were_ friends.

Can it not be so again?
I have thought so long and so steadily about it that I no longer exactly know whether I may venture to write to you or whether the only thing decently left me is silence, which for the second time I am breaking now, because I cannot believe that I offered my friendship to such a man as you have said you are.

It is not in any woman to do it.
Perhaps it is self-respect that protests, repudiates, denies what you have said to me of yourself; and perhaps it is a sentiment less austere.

I can no longer judge.
"And now that I have the courage--or effrontery--to write you once more, will you misconstrue my letter--and my motive?
If I cannot be reconciled to what I hear of you--if what I hear pains, frightens me out of a justifiable silence which perhaps you might respect, will you respect my motive for breaking it the less?
I do not know.

But the silence is now broken, and I must endure the consequences.
"Deep unhappiness I have never known; but I recognise it in others when I see it, and would aid always if I could.