And at that moment, he felt that the promise had not been a vain one; for he knew that he could not go to her, that at sight of her his resolution would melt like snow in the sun, that his love for her would sweep him away on a torrent of passion, and that he would be as false to Maude Falconer as he had been to Ida.
And yet he could not leave her, desert her--yes, that was the word!--without making some sign, without speaking one word, not of excuse, but of farewell.

What could he say to her?
He could not tell her the truth; for his father's sake that must never be divulged; he could give her no explanation, must permit her to think him base and faithless and dishonorable.

There was only one thing he could do, and that was to write to her.

But what could he say?
He went to his writing-table and took up a pen.

His hand was cold as ice and shaking, and he held it before him until it grew steadier.