that you have somehow accepted me. You have accepted me, haven't you? I mean, you are letting me love you, aren't you? And that is all that I want. At least it's not all that I want but it's all that I can ask and, John, it's enough. I can be happy just thinking about you and seeing you now and then when you aren't too busy. Love is such a good occupation, John, and I'm beginning to think that I'm clever at it! Be well, my dearest, and don't work too hard, and if it is ever a refreshment to you to know that your Jessica is thinking loving thoughts about you, then know it indeed, because it will be true. Yours, yours, yours Jessica P. S. I wonder if you understand me when I say that I have a guilty conscience? And that I was so relieved to get your postcard and know that all was well? You are a forgiving man and I worship you for that too. (If all this is Greek to you never mind! I'll explain one day!) John my dear, I am feeling wretched and I must write to you, and although I know you don't want to be told that I love you, and that this just annoys you, I've still got to write and tell you because it's a fact and one that I live with in hell. I know one averts one's attention from unpleasant things and I have no doubt you think as little as possible about the problem of What To Do About Jessica; but the problem remains, and I have to press it on your notice now and then because you are the only person who can help me. I might say too that you are the person who ought to help me, since you do bear some responsibility for having awakened in me such an immense, such a truly monstrous degree of love. Of course I shall never recover from this illness. But you must just do a little more to help me to live with it. I suppose you know, if you use your imagination at all about me (but perhaps you don't), that I expect a letter from you by every post. Idiotic, but I do; I can't help it, it's physical. I rush down as soon as I'hear the postman. And when, as usual, there's nothing, it's like a kind of amputation. Do try to think about this, John, even for two seconds. You leave me without any news for nearly a week. Then you send me a postcard suggesting a meeting in ten days' time. This just isn't good enough, my dear. Are you really so busy that you can't see me for half an hour sometime next week? I behave very well these days, as you know – you've trained me and I have to! Couldn't you manage a short drink some evening? In fact, I could manage really any time of day, anywhere. Why not telephone me? I'm in nearly all the time now. It would give me a particular relief to see you just now because – well, I wonder if you know why? I can't help wondering if you are not angry with me especially after getting your postcard. If you think I have done wrong you have got to forgive me. Because otherwise I shall die. John, please see me next week. Jessica John, as you may know by now, I went to bed with somebody last week. I expect you probably know all about it and either you are furious or you despise me utterly. I just couldn't interpret your postcard. It had such a curious tone. What are you thinking about me? I don't say 'forgive me' as I don't feel penitent. You've made it so clear that you don't want me, or rather you want me completely on your own terms. I'm supposed to love you but give no trouble. Well, I'm not as trouble-free as all that. And things happen to me too. However I suppose I should be grateful that at least you've always been totally truthful with me-and now I'm being totally truthful with you. It is unfortunately for us both also the truth that I love you and only you utterly and permanently and to distraction. You've just got to bear it. Please see me tomorrow. I'll telephone you at the office.. Jessica Bird had been wandering up and down her room for some time now. The three letters, which she had spent most of the previous night writing, were laid out on the table. Which letter should she send? Which was the sincere one? She felt all of the things in all of the letters. Which was the efficacious one? She knew in her heart that not one of them would be efficacious. Any one of them would annoy John and make him harden his heart against her. He would not see her tomorrow. He might see her for half an hour next week and then postpone the appointment he had made on the postcard. It was not likely that he was angry with her; she had just become a nuisance and anything that she did, any claim that she made on his attention, was an irritant. This is perhaps the saddest experience in the demise of love and the most difficult for the imagination to encompass: to come to know that someone who loved you once now regards you as boring and annoying and unimportant. Sheer hatred might even be preferred to this. Of course she was being very unjust to John. John was a conscientious man who did no doubt worry about her welfare and it was on principle and as a matter of duty that he had suggested to her such a far off date on a postcard. He was trying to cure her. But this was not the way to do it. And indeed there was no cure. It had been a sort of relief to Jessica to feel a clear and definite jealousy. The beautiful woman entering John's front door had been an indubitable percept, something novel, an occasion of quite new thoughts and hence a freshener of love; and as there is a joy of loving which lives even in extreme pain, there had been something invigorating and even cheering in this period of jealous love. However, the period of jealous love, though not exactly over, had suffered change. Jessica, amid all her other preoccupations, had been impressed in a quite factual way by her failure to find anything at all of a suggestive nature in John's bedroom: not a pin, not a smell, no cosmetics, no contraceptives, nothing. As John could scarcely have imagined her bold and inventive enough actually to get herself inside his house, he would be unlikely to have kept his room in quite such an innocuous condition if something were really going on there. Jessica was particularly impressed by the absence of the least hint of perfume. A woman who looked like the woman 11111 she had seen would be certain to wear perfume. It was wonderful that there had been nothing to smell. Yet there had been, as large as life, this woman, and Jessica would have continued to devote her time to speculation about her were it not that she had been plunged into the most terrible anxiety by the extraordinary way in which her visit to Ducane's house had terminated. The little man, Willy, had told her that he would not tell John; but could she believe him? Did men tell each other such things? Of course they did. It would be only human if Willy told her he would not tell, and even meant it, and then told. How would John take it, how had he taken it? What did the postcard mean? What should she do? Should she confess and risk his not knowing, or not confess and risk his knowing? Would he be angry, would he be, oh beautiful thought, jealous, would he decide to write her off altogether? This lapse might provide him with just that little extra ounce of resentment needed to make him decide to stop seeing her. Was that the meaning of the postcard? He would nurse his anger, humiliate her by the delay, and then announce to her that it was their last meeting? Or did he know and just feel utterly indifferent? Or did he not know, and was really becoming grateful for her love, ready to accept it, comforted to know that she was eternally there? Jessica paused facing the window pane but she did not look out. The window pane might have been entirely opaque, she herself might have been wearing a black veil, for all she could see of the cars and the people and the dogs and the cats passing by in the street. Her thoughts and images enclosed her head in a field of forces which literally rendered the world invisible. The only relief from endless speculation was fantasy, and of this she only allowed herself a very little. John did not really know his own heart. He was a hopeless puritan who could not have a love affair without feeling guilty. He had broken things off because he felt too guilty to be happy. But he was gradually discovering that without Jessica his life was empty: He had made conscientious efforts to reduce their love into a friendship, but he could not stop thinking about her. One day he would realize that he could not cease to love her; and then the idea would come to him that the way to stop feeling guilty with somebody is to marry them. He would write her a long letter about it in his pedantic official style, full of careful explanations of his state of mind, asking if after all the pain he had caused her she still loved him enough to be willing to become his wife. Jessica had also devoted quite a lot of thought to Willy. Any event is welcome to those who are unhappily in love,. and Willy had certainly been an event. For a short while, before her own reflections, together with John's curious postcard, had begun to frighten her, she had even felt a sort of exhilaration about Willy. There was an odd sacrilegious pleasure in the unfaithfulness itself. But she had also noticed Willy, and although she was scarcely aware of this, simply being forced to see something in the world other than John Ducane had done her good. Willy had intrigued and moved her, and before the old tyranny of love had again incarcerated her poor incurious heart she had felt a very definite desire to see him again. He had never revealed his surname or told her who he was. However, her curiosity about him, which did she but know it was a little spark of virtue in her, had by now been completely quenched by her guilt and indecision about John. Jessica looked at herself in the long mirror which hung at one end of the room. She could no longer decide whether she was beautiful. Her face had no significance now except seenby-John, her body no meaning except touched-by-John. But what did he see, what did he touch? That he could see her as clearly as she now saw herself
