"Dear Mr. LeVallon,—I feel I must send you a tiny word to let you know that I really have forgiven you. You behaved, you know, in a way that no man of my acquaintance has ever done before. But I feel sure now you did not really mean it. Your forest and mountain gods have not taught you to understand civilized women. So—I forgive.
"Please forget it all, as I have forgotten it.—Yours,
"Angela Gleeson.
"P. S.—And you may come and see me soon."
To which, two days later, came the reply:
"Dear Lady Gleeson,—I thank you.
Julian LeVallon."
Within an hour of its receipt, she wrote:
"Dear Julian,—I am so glad you understand. I knew you would. You may come and see me. I will prove to you that you are really forgiven. There is no need to feel embarrassed. I am interested in you and can help you. Believe me, you need a woman's guidance. All—all I have, is yours.
"I shall be at home this afternoon—alone—from 4 to 7 o'clock. I shall expect you. My love to you and your grand wild gods!—Yours,
"Angela.
"P. S.—I want you to tell me more about your gods. Will you?"
She sent it by special messenger, "Reply" underlined on the envelope. He did not appear at the appointed hour, but the next morning she received his letter. It came by ordinary post. The writing on the envelope was not his. Either Devonham or Fillery had addressed it. And a twinge of unaccustomed emotion troubled her. Intuition, it seems, survives even in the coarsest, most degraded feminine nature, ruins of some divine prerogative perhaps. Lady Gleeson, at any rate, flinched uneasily before she opened the long expected missive:
"Dear Lady Gleeson,—Be sure that you are always under the protection of the gods even if you do not know them. They are impersonal. They come to you through passion but not through that love of the naked body which is lust. I can work with passion because it is creative, but not with lust, for it is destructive only. Your suffering is the youth and ignorance of the young uncreative animal. I can strive with young animals and can help them. But I cannot work with them. I beg you, listen. I love in you the fire, though it is faint and piti-ful.
"Julian."
Lady Gleeson read this letter in front of the looking-glass, then stared at her reflection in the mirror.
She was dazed. But in spite of the language she thought "silly," she caught the blunt refusal of her generous offer. She understood. Yet, unable to believe it, she looked at her reflection again—then, impulsively, went downstairs to see her husband.
It really was more than she could bear. The man was mad, but that did not excuse him.