I do not love him. Sometimes, I am unsure if I even like him. Indeed, I cried when I first realized his intentions, but I did not dissuade him. He is a good man, to be sure. He says he cares for my happiness, and he is not unkind. He does not drink to excess, as so many other men do, and I do not wonder about his beliefs. When we first spoke, I welcomed his attentions and fancied myself in love due to the novelty of it all, and we are not so different that we should have nothing to speak of.

Considering my age, it now seems most appropriate to contemplate courtship and marriage, as odious as it seems. When he speaks, I often find I must refrain from saying something sharp and unladylike, for love is patient, and I am not. His excessive flattery, the general emptiness of his speech, his misunderstanding of my feelings, his very presence unsettles me.

I feel at once as if I am doing him a great wrong by allowing him to believe he holds my affections, but it is countered by sympathy, for it may be that this is new to him as well. I understand it is no small thing for anyone to offer another their love, and I must now do everything in my power to prevent his disappointment when he realizes I cannot return it. Some may say I should tell him outright and spare him this pain, but I fear it is too late.

No, I do not love him, and I feel I never will, but perhaps absence will make the heart grow fonder. I shall keep to myself and encourage him to find some occupation or another, and we will be able to live in peace. And yet, there is still time. I pray he might find happiness with someone better suited to him.