She couldn't be so utterly heart-broken if she was able to practise
deep breathing and concentration--Wealth, Friendship, Art--a pretty
comprehensive repertoire--and to prate on Cosmic Realities and the
Wagnerian feeling!

But presently the tragic note shrieked again. Bridget went on:

'I am in a fever of suspense and misery wondering whether Will's
marriage will come off or if, at the last moment, it will be broken. He
has been obsessing me these last days. He too--I am certain of it--
dreads the Irrevocable, and regrets the rupture between us. I dream of
him continually--such restless, tantalising dreams. And yet my mood is
so contradictory. If the marriage WERE broken off and he stood before
me, free, and offered himself!--

Could I bring myself to face our future together with all its
depoeticising influences, its almost certainty of friction? No.
Something deep down inside me says--has always said--"It would be a
mistake; this is not the real thing: we are not suited to each other;
the attraction might even turn to repulsion." Imagine the agony of
that!

Life goes on here, all dribble, waste and fret--I cannot concentrate,
I cannot paint--the Wave-fairies won't play--Your Bush gobies appeal
more to my present humour. I feel a sort of nostalgia for the wild--
though my nostalgia is mental, and not from any former association. Do
not be surprised if some day you get a telegram saying that I am
coming.'

Another sheet.