H. Or old letters? (Coming nearer and taking up the letter.) But you did care for me enough to keep this letter—to read it over to-day—to give one thought to old happiness in the presence of new?
E. (recovering herself with an effort). I thought enough of myself to keep it. It is a mistaken theory that a woman keeps old love-letters for the sake of the sender. She keeps them because they are flattering—because they—they sound nice. I have lots more.
H. (offended). And you were only weeding them out to-day? Very well. That is enough. No further words are necessary.
E. Yes—so you said before (glancing at letter), or something very like it (Looking into the teapot.) There is no more tea for us, and the lamp has gone out. (Looking about.) And no matches—unless you have one in your pocket.
H. (who has been thinking, moodily feels in all his pockets). I am very sorry—but I cannot supply you with even the necessaries of life.
E. Never mind, I can light it from the fire.
H. (pushes the letters toward her). Make a lamplighter of one of these, and I will light it for you.
Esther hesitates an instant, takes up one letter, and then the other.
H. Oh, use mine. It has failed to rekindle a passion, but it may do for a teakettle. It may as well be reduced to ashes along with the rest of the poor little love-story.
Esther turns her head a little away and slowly twists both letters into lamp-lighters.