Mary answered in a low voice that the teacher thought she had talent. …
They were left alone.
“Well, what is it, Nigel?” She spoke in querulous, frightened voice.
They were sitting in the boudoir again. Coffee had been left on the table.
Nigel lighted a cigarette.
He was still a little sorry for her. Then he said:
“Look here, Mary, I’m sorry to say I’ve found out you’ve been doing a very terrible thing! I ask you not to deny it, because I know it. The only chance of our ever being in peace together again, or in peace at all, is for you to speak the truth.”
She did not answer.
“I’ve forgiven heaps of things—frightful tempers, mad suspicions, that disgraceful scene you made at our party—but I always thought you were honourable and truthful. What you’ve done is very dishonourable. Don’t make it worse by denying it.” He paused. “You have written five anonymous letters, dictated in typewriting, about me and Mrs. Kellynch to her husband. I don’t know what you thought, but you certainly tried to give the impression that our harmless conversations meant something more. That there was an intrigue going on. Did you really think this, may I ask?”
“Yes, I did,” she said, in a low voice, looking down.