She drew the letter out of the front of her dress and handed it to him with a hand that trembled so much it made the folded paper rattle. He took it, unfolded it, read it. Watching him, she saw no change in his face until he looked up and smiled.
"Is this it?" he asked. "A lot I care about that—not to go into the Simpson firm! You don't understand your power. The things that would have made me suffer—well, if you had let prison break you, if you had given your love to that crooked politician who came down to bribe me on your behalf——Why, when you fell at my feet in the reception room at Auburn I suffered more than in all my life before or since, because I love you."
"Stop!" said Lydia. "Don't dare say that to me!"
"I love you," he said. "You don't have to go about looking for things like this," and he flicked the letter contemptuously into the fire. "You make me suffer just by existing."
"I won't listen to you!" said Lydia, and she moved away.
"Of course you'll listen to me," he answered, standing between her and the door. "There isn't one thing you've done since I first saw you that has given me the slightest pleasure or peace or happiness—nothing but unrest and pain. When you're hard and bitter I suffer, and when you're gentle and kind——"
She gave a sort of laugh at this.
"When have you ever seen me gentle and kind?" she asked.
"Oh, I know how wonderfully you could give yourself to a man if you loved him."
"Don't say such things!" she said, actually shuddering. "It sickens me! Don't even think them!"