The word was cold and formal, but his voice and manner were warm and
earnest. His mood seemed changed: he seemed again near me, and an
irresistible attraction toward him possessed me, body and soul. There
was something in his very attitude, as he stood by the door with his
head bent down, that seemed to win me. What was it that came over me?
What subtle power is it by which one nature draws another without any
apparent or audible summons? I do not know; but this I know, that
as he said the words I have just written down a floodgate within me
seemed raised, and with a mighty rush my spirit bounded toward him.
And yet I did not move.

"Forgive you?" I said. "Yes, a thousand times!"

He looked up, said, "Thank you!" very softly, and turned to the door.
When he reached it he stopped, turned again, and came up to me. "Will
you give me your hand in token of forgiveness and friendship?" he
said.

I said nothing, but held out my hand. He took it in both of his, and
then in a moment more my arms were about his neck, and our lips had
met. He kissed me again and again, held me very close for an instant,
and then, untwining my arms from their hold, he abruptly left
the room. That was three hours ago, and I have sat here thinking,
thinking, ever since. What does it all mean? Writing it out has helped
me, as I thought it would. Two things have become clear to me: I am
quite conscious that I have sought Mr. Lawrence at least as much as he
has me. I have always believed it to be as natural for a woman who was
once freed from the foolish prejudices of education and tradition to
hold out her hand to any one who attracted her as for a man to seek a