If the
letter was insulting, it was by no means as insulting as he would have
liked to make it. Whether it would be wounding enough was something that
depended upon the person whom he wished to wound. All that was proud and
vain and cruel in him surged up at the thought of the trick that had been
played upon him, and all that was sweet and kind and gentle in him, when
he believed the trick was a genuine appeal, turned to their counter
qualities. Yet, feeble and inadequate as his letter was, he knew that
he could not do more or worse by trying, and he so much feared that by
waiting he might do less and better that he hurried it into the post at
once. If his mother had been at hand he would have shown it her,
though he might not have been ruled by her judgment of it. He was glad
that she was not with him, for either she would have had her opinion of
what would be more telling, or she would have insisted upon his delaying
any sort of reply, and he could not endure the thought of difference
or delay.
He asked himself whether he should let her see the rough first draft of
his letter or not, and he decided that he would not. But when she came
into his study on her return he showed it her.
She read it in silence, and then she seemed to temporize in asking,
"Where are her two letters?"
"I've sent them back with the answer.
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