But was it kind to break the silence of years with such a reference?
Was it even quite decent in Catherine to ignore my existence until I could be of use to her, and then to ask the favour in her first breath?
It was true, as she went on to remind me, that we were more or less connected after all, and at least conceivable that no one else could help her as I could, if I would.

In any case, it was a certain satisfaction to hear that Catherine herself was of the last opinion.

I read on.

She was in a difficulty; but she did not say what the difficulty was.

For one unworthy moment the thought of money entered my mind, to be ejected the next, as the Catherine of old came more and more into the mental focus.
Pride was the last thing in which I had found her wanting, and her letter indicated no change in that respect.
"You may wonder," she wrote just at the end, "why I have never sent you a single word of inquiry, or sympathy, or congratulation!! Well--suppose it was 'bad blood'!! between us when you went away! Mind, _I_ never meant it to be so, but suppose it was: could I treat the dear old you like that, and the Great New You like somebody else?
You have your own fame to thank for my unkindness! _I_ am only thankful they haven't given you the V.C.!! _Then_ I should _never_ have dared--not even now!!!" I smoked a cigarette when I had read it all twice over, and as I crushed the fire out of the stump I felt I could as soon think of lighting it again as I should have expected Catherine Evers to set a fresh match to me.