"My letter," she said. "You must not exaggerate its meaning. You read it carefully?"
"Very carefully."
"And I wrote it carefully," she went on, pleading with his indifference; "very carefully."
"It contains the truth," said Tony; "I did not doubt that."
"Yes; but it contains all the truth," she urged. "You must not doubt that either. Remember, you yourself are to blame. I wrote that, didn't I? I meant it."
"Yes, you wrote that," answered Tony. "I am not denying that you are right. It may well be that I am to blame. It may well be that you, too, are not quite free from blame. Had you told me that morning, when we rode together in the Row, what you had really meant when you said that I ought never to leave my wife----" And at that Pamela interrupted him--
"Would you have stayed if I had explained?" she cried. And Tony for a moment was silent. Then he answered slowly--
"No; for I should not have believed you." And then he moved for the first time since he had entered the room. "However, it can do neither of us any good to discuss what we might have done had we known then what we know now."
He stopped as the door opened. The lamps were brought in and set upon the tables. Tony waited until the servant had gone out, and the door was closed again; then he said--
"You sent a telegram. I am here in answer to it. I was to be at Roquebrune on the thirty-first. This is the thirty-first. Am I in time?"