There was no reason why he should not love her , but there was a reason why he could not marry her . When he found that he loved her he knew that he must go away . But might he not , at least , tell her his love ? Might he not , at least , find out for his consolation if she cared for him ? There was a struggle ; he won , and went away without a word , believing it to be the more manly course . When I began to read Miss Sylvia was knitting , a pale green something this time , of the tender hue of young leaves in May . But after a little her knitting slipped unheeded to her lap and her hands folded idly above it . It was the most subtle compliment I had ever received . When I turned the last page of the manuscript and looked up , Miss Sylvia 's soft brown eyes were full of tears . She lifted her hands , clasped them together and said in an agitated voice : `` Oh , no , no ; do n't let him go away without telling her -- just telling her . Do n't let him do it ! '' `` But , you see , Miss Sylvia , '' I explained , flattered beyond measure that my characters had seemed so real to her , `` that would spoil the story . It would have no reason for existence then . Its motif is simply his mastery over self . He believes it to be the nobler course . '' `` No , no , it was n't -- if he loved her he should have told her . Think of her shame and humiliation -- she loved him , and he went without a word and she could never know he cared for her . Oh , you must change it -- you must , indeed ! I can not bear to think of her suffering what I have suffered . '' Miss Sylvia broke down and sobbed .
To appease her , I promised that I would remodel the story , although I knew XXXXX the doing so would leave it absolutely pointless .
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