Which was a true prophecy.
Phil got that letter, and held himself ill-treated. This was two years after
he had come out; but by dint of thinking fixedly of Agnes Laiter, and looking
at her photograph, and patting himself on the back for being one of the most
constant lovers in history, and warming to the work as he went on, he really
fancied that he had been very hardly used. He sat down and wrote one final
letter--a really pathetic "world without end, amen," epistle; explaining how
he would be true to Eternity, and that all women were very much alike, and he
would hide his broken heart, etc., etc.; but if, at any future time, etc.,
etc., he could afford to wait, etc., etc., unchanged affections, etc., etc.,
return to her old love, etc., etc., for eight closely-written pages. From an
artistic point of view, it was very neat work, but an ordinary Philistine, who
knew the state of Phil's real feelings--not the ones he rose to as he went on
writing--would have called it the thoroughly mean and selfish work of a
thoroughly mean and selfish, weak man. But this verdict would have been
incorrect. Phil paid for the postage, and felt every word he had written for
at least two days and a half.
It was the last flicker before the light went out.
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