and spring had broken.
(The icicles were short upon the roofs and the changeling city swooned.) Our thoughts were frosty mist along the eaves; our two ghosts kissed, high on the long, mazed wires--eerie half-laughter echoes here and leaves only a fatuous sigh for young desires; regret has followed after things she loved, leaving the great husk.
***** ANOTHER ENDING In mid-August came a letter from Monsignor Darcy, who had evidently just stumbled on his address: MY DEAR BOY:-- Your last letter was quite enough to make me worry about you.

It was not a bit like yourself.

Reading between the lines I should imagine that your engagement to this girl is making you rather unhappy, and I see you have lost all the feeling of romance that you had before the war.

You make a great mistake if you think you can be romantic without religion.
Sometimes I think that with both of us the secret of success, when we find it, is the mystical element in us: something flows into us that enlarges our personalities, and when it ebbs out our personalities shrink; I should call your last two letters rather shrivelled.

Beware of losing yourself in the personality of another being, man or woman.
His Eminence Cardinal O'Neill and the Bishop of Boston are staying with me at present, so it is hard for me to get a moment to write, but I wish you would come up here later if only for a week-end.