I agreed,
and I have kept my word. All the while has been the fear bothering me
beyond endurance that you did it to be rid of me. I said some bold words
to you--to make you remember me. Roberta, I am humbler to-day than I was
then. I shouldn't dare say them to you now. I was madly in love with you
then; I dared say anything. I am not less in love now--great heavens! not
less--but I have grown to worship you so that I have become afraid. When
I saw you in my room before my mother's portrait I could have knelt at
your feet. From the beginning I have felt that I was not worthy of you,
but I feel it so much more deeply now that I don't know how to offer
myself to you. I have written as if I wanted to persuade you that I am
more of a man than when you knew me first, and therefore more worthy of
you. I _am_ more of a man, but by just so much more do I realize my own
unworthiness.
And yet--it is Midsummer Day; this is the twenty-fourth of June--and I am
on fire with love and longing for you, and I must know whether you care.
If I were strong enough I would offer to wait longer before asking you to
tell me--but I'm not strong enough for that.
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