A Contretemps Edith did not know, herself, what had induced her to write that letter to Paris.

Some gradual obscure influence, in an impulsive moment of weakness, a conventional dread of Paris for one's idol.

Then, what Vincy told her had convinced her Aylmer was unhappy.

She thought that surely there might be some compromise; that matters could be adjusted.
Couldn't they go on seeing each other just as friends?
Surely both would be happier than separated?
For, yes--there was no doubt she missed him, and longed to see him.

Is there any woman in the world on whom a sincere declaration from a charming, interesting person doesn't make an impression, and particularly if that person goes away practically the next day, leaving a blank?
Edith had a high opinion of her own strength of will.