The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. I do forgive him; but he will never know now. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. Her senses were prickled when she felt a new pair of eyes upon her. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. In the mornings I find labour easy because I am going to see you.
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