It was a terrible awakening, and to this day I feel sorry for myself, as I look back, and see how utterly adrift I was for a time. This analysis of my feelings can have little interest for you, however, and I feel inclined to apologize for writing anything besides the bare facts.
Marie married Prince Simonieff a year or two after, and now lives in Paris. Her brother was killed in a duel, I believe, but not by me. This is all; and it is not such a horrible story as those ladies made it, is it? It had its influence in making me what I am; and if you knew my whole life as you now do this episode, I think you would throw the kind mantle of charity over some of my faults. I wonder if you will ever have patience to read as far as this?
I read this letter to the end, and then it dropped into my lap, while I clasped my hands behind my head and tried to picture Countess Talke to myself. The only part of George's story in which I did not place implicit confidence was his assertion that he was not in love with that woman. Undoubtedly he thought so now, as he looked back, but he must have been desperately in love at the time,—much more so than he is with me.
There is one strange thing about George: he has never given me one word of praise, except in this letter, where he calls me pure-hearted,—and surely he could hardly say less than that. When he has spoken to me of myself, it has always been to blame me. There is the door-bell. Who can it be?
