"No," and added heavily—"It's burnt."
She was clearly fencing with him; clearly not telling all the truth. He did not blame her. But he felt that helplessness, that irritation, of the male whose bull-headed rush is baffled by the woman's weapon, imponderable as air, elusive as twilight, soft and blinding as a fog; the weapons she has wrought in self-defence upon the anvil of her necessities through the immemorial ages of her evolution.
"He asked you to burn it, I suppose?" said Ernie bitterly.
Her bosom heaved. She did not answer him.
"Ah," continued Ernie remorselessly. "He knew you. Took advantage to the end."
Ernie was troubled for the moment by the incident, but the emotion it aroused in him was pity rather than anger.
Ruth had deceived him, he was sure. He did not believe that Royal had written her a letter. So skilled an adventurer, so expert a cad, would be little likely to commit himself on paper in such a matter. That ten-pound note had wound up the incident for him.
But the shifts to which a girl in Ruth's position must inevitably be driven seemed to him excusable, even in this case, admirable. Royal had betrayed and deserted her; and she repaid his treachery by a steadfastness beyond words.
With the capacity of true love, he made beauty out of an obvious blemish.
Here was a woman indeed!—Here was a lover!