“My dear, we have written again and again.”
“Yes; but this time I shall write. You will see!”
“What are you going to say, my dear?”
“That I must see him; and if he doesn’t come to me, I shall go to him.”
“And if he does not come—”
“I am going to write so that he will come. I shall tell him I have something to say, and must see him.”
“But, Maimie, you cannot breathe a word to him of this fancy of ours—this suspicion. I am not sure that we are right to speak of it, even to one another.”
“I shall not say the very least word of that to him. How could I? I should not dare! O no,—not to him, or to anybody. But I have something that I must say. Yes, I know now what to do.” Then she paused, with a saddened look and a sigh. “Yes, I must,” she repeated. “It is only right. If I can stop this wrong, I will. But please don’t ask me any more questions just now.”
And I did not.