He struggled with this new conception of her, and had almost
forgiven her, when a further and still more startling suggestion
arrived to plague him. If she really lived why should he not see
her, speak to her? So long as she had remained in her hidden
temple, situate in the vague recesses of London, S.E., her letters
had contented him. But now that she had moved, now that she was no
longer a voice but a woman! Well, it would be interesting to see
what she was like. He imagined the introduction: "Miss Somebody-
or-other, allow me to present you to Mr. Matthew Pole." She would
have no idea he was Aston Rowant. If she happened to be young,
beautiful, in all ways satisfactory, he would announce himself. How
astonished, how delighted she would be.
But if not! If she were elderly, plain? The wisest, wittiest of
women have been known to have an incipient moustache. A beautiful
spirit can, and sometimes does, look out of goggle eyes. Suppose
she suffered from indigestion and had a shiny nose! Would her
letters ever again have the same charm for him? Absurd that they
should not. But would they?
The risk was too great. Giving the matter long and careful
consideration, he decided to send her back into dreamland.
But somehow she would not go back into dreamland, would persist in
remaining in New York, a living, breathing woman.
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