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on。
The book； he remembered； contained a reference to the magazine in
which the sketches had first appeared。 She would be sure to have
noticed this。 He would send her his answer。 He drew his chair up
to the flimsy table； and all that night he wrote。
He did not have to think。 It came to him； and for the first time
since the beginning of things he had no fear of its not being
accepted。 It was mostly about himself； and the rest was about her；
but to most of those who read it two months later it seemed to be
about themselves。 The editor wrote a charming letter； thanking him
for it； but at the time the chief thing that worried him was whether
〃Sylvia〃 had seen it。 He waited anxiously for a few weeks； and then
received her second letter。 It was a more womanly letter than the
first。 She had understood the story； and her words of thanks almost
conveyed to him the flush of pleasure with which she had read it。
His friendship； she confessed； would be very sweet to her； and still
more delightful the thought that he had need of her： that she also
had something to give。 She would write； as he wished； her real
thoughts and feelings。 They would never know one another； and that
would give her boldness。 They would be comrades； meeting only in
dreamland。
In this way commenced the whimsical romance of Sylvia and Aston
Rowant； for it was too late now to change the nameit had become a
name to conjure with。 The stories； poems； and essays followed now
in regular succession。 The anxiously expected letters reached him
in orderly procession。 They grew in interest； in helpfulness。 They
became the letters of a wonderfully sane； broad…minded； thoughtful
womana woman of insight； of fine judgment。 Their praise was rare
enough to be precious。 Often they would contain just criticism；
tempered by sympathy； lightened by humour。 Of her troubles；
sorrows； fears； she came to write less and less； and even then not
until they were past and she could laugh at them。 The subtlest
flattery she gave him was the suggestion that he had taught her to
put these things into their proper place。 Intimate； self…revealing
as her letters were； it was curious he never shaped from them any
satisfactory image of the writer。
A brave； kind； tender woman。 A self…forgetting； quickly…forgiving
woman。 A many…sided woman； responding to joy； to laughter： a merry
lady； at times。 Yet by no means a perfect woman。 There could be
flashes of temper； one felt that； quite often occasional
unreasonableness； a tongue that could be cutting。 A sweet； restful；
greatly loving woman； but still a woman： it would be wise to
remember that。 So he read her from her letters。 But herself； the
eyes； and hair； and lips of her； the voice and laugh and smile of
her； the hands and feet of her； always they eluded him。
He was in Alaska one spring； where he had gone to collect material
for his work； when he received the last letter she ever wrote him。
They neither of them knew then it would be the last。 She was
leaving London； so the postscript informed him； sailing on the
following Saturday for New York； where for the future she intended
to live。
It worried him that postscript。 He could not make out for a long
time why it worried him。 Suddenly； in a waste of endless snows； the
explanation flashed across him。 Sylvia of the letters was a living
woman！ She could travelwith a box； he supposed； possibly with two
or three； and parcels。 Could take tickets； walk up a gangway；
stagger about a deck feeling； maybe； a little seasick。 All these
years he had been living with her in dreamland she had been； if he
had only known it； a Miss Somebody…or…other； who must have stood
every morning in front of a looking…glass with hairpins in her
mouth。 He had never thought of her doing these things； it shocked
him。 He could not help feeling it was indelicate of hercoming to
life in this sudden； uncalled…for manner。
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。
Yet even so； how could he find her？ He might； say； in a poem convey
to her his desire for a meeting。 Would she comply？ And if she did；
what would be his position； supposing the inspection to result
unfavourably for her？ Could he； in effect； say to her： 〃Thank you
for letting me have a look at you； that is all I wanted。 Good…bye〃？
She must； she should remain in dreamland。 He would forget her
postscript； in future throw her envelopes unglanced at into the
wastepaper basket。 Having by this simple exercise of his will
replaced her in London； he himself started for New Yorkon his way
back to Europe； so he told himself。 Still； being in New York； there
was no reason for not lingering there a while； if merely to renew
old memories。
Of course； if he had really wanted to find Sylvia it would have been
easy from the date upon the envelope to have discovered the ship
〃sailing the following Saturday。〃 Passengers were compelled to
register their names in full； and to state their intended movements
after arrival in America。 Sylvia was not a common Christian name。
By the help of a five…dollar bill or two。 The idea had not
occurred to him before。 He dismissed it from his mind and sought a
quiet hotel up town。
New York was changed less than he had anticipated。 West Twentieth
Street in particular was precisely as； leaning out of the cab
window； he had looked back upon it ten years ago。 Business had more
and more taken possession of it； but had not as yet altered its
appearance。 His conscience smote him as he turned the corner that
he had never once written to Ann。 He had meant to； it goes without
saying； but during those first years of struggle and failure his
pride had held him back。 She had always thought him a fool； he had
felt she did。 He would wait till he could write to her of success；
of victory。 And then when it had slowly； almost imperceptibly；
arrived！ He wondered why he never had。 Quite a nice little girl；
in some respects。 If only she had been less conceited； less
self…willed。 Also rather a pretty girl she had shown signs of
becoming。 There were times He remembered an evening before the
lamps were lighted。 She had fallen asleep curled up in Abner's easy
chair； one small hand resting upon the arm。 She had always had
quite attractive handsa little too thin。 Something had moved him
to steal across softly without waking her。 He smiled at the memory。
And then her eyes； beneath the level brows！ It was surprising how
Ann was coming back to him。 Perhaps they would be able to tell him；
the people of the house； what had become of her。 If they were
decent people they would let him wander round a while。 He would
explain that he had lived there in Abner Herrick's time。 The room
where they had sometimes been agreeable to one another while Abner；
pretending to read； had sat watching them out of the corner of an
eye。 He would like to sit there for a few moments； by himself。
He forgot that he had rung the bell。 A very young servant had
answered the door and was staring at him。 He would have walked in
if the small servant had not planted herself deliberately in his
way。 It recalled him to himself。
〃I beg pardon；〃 said Matthew； 〃but would you please tell me who
lives here？〃
The small servant looked him up and down with growing suspicion。
〃Miss Kavanagh lives here；〃 she said。 〃What do you want？〃
The surprise was so great it rendered him speechless。 In another
moment the small servant would have slammed the door。
〃Miss Ann Kavanagh？〃 he inquired； just in time。
〃That's her name；〃 admitted the small servant； less suspicious。
〃Will you please tell her Mr。 PoleMr。 Matthew Pole；〃 he requested。
〃I'll see first if she is in；〃 said the small servant； and shut the
door。
It gave Matthew a few minutes to recover himself； for which he was
glad。 Then the door opened again sudden