If she had been a man, she would have gone to him at once, hunted him up
this very night, and told him in the most groveling language at her
command, how infinitely sorry and ashamed she was. Lying wide-eyed in
her little white bed, she composed a number of long speeches that she,
as a man, would have made to him; embarrassing speeches which he, as a
man, or any other man that ever lived, would never have endured for a
moment. But she was not a man, she was a girl; and girls were not
allowed to go to men, and frankly and honestly say what was in their
hearts. She was not in the least likely to meet him by accident; the
telephone was unthinkable. There remained only to write him a letter.
Yes, but what to say in the letter? There was the critical and crucial
question. No matter how artful and cajoling an apology she wrote, she
knew exactly how he would treat it. He would write a civil, formal
reply, assuring her that her apology was accepted, and there the matter
would stand forever. For she had put herself terribly in the wrong; she
had betrayed a damning weakness; it was extremely probable that he would
never care to resume friendship with one who had proved herself so
hatefully mistrustful.
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