I am outdoors
all day, and when I get back to this cabin at night I am too tired for
anything but bed.
Your imperious questions I must answer--and that must, of course, is a
third reason why I have delayed my reply. First, you ask, "Don't you love
me any more as you used to?" . . . Frankly, I do not. I am sure my old love
for you, before I went to France, was selfish, thoughtless, sentimental,
and boyish. I am a man now. And my love for you is different. Let me assure
you that it has been about all left to me of what is noble and beautiful.
Whatever the changes in me for the worse, my love for you, at least, has
grown better, finer, purer.
And now for your second question, "Are you coming home as soon as you are
well again?" . . . Carley, I am well. I have delayed telling you this
because I knew you would expect me to rush back East with the telling. But--
the fact is, Carley, I am not coming--just yet. I wish it were possible
for me to make you understand. For a long time I seem to have been frozen
within. You know when I came back from France I couldn't talk. It's almost
as bad as that now. Yet all that I was then seems to have changed again. It
is only fair to you to tell you that, as I feel now, I hate the city, I
hate people, and particularly I hate that dancing, drinking, lounging set
you chase with.
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