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?