"Of course you did, dear lady," he rejoined with a smile. "If a woman once resisted the temptation of putting a shell-like ear to a keyhole, the world would lose many a cause for entertainment."
"That letter, milor——" she broke in impatiently.
"Which letter, Madame?"
"That insulting letter to me . . . when you took Moncrif away. . . . You never wrote it?"
"Did you really think that I did?" he retorted.
"No. I ought to have guessed . . . the moment that I saw you in England. . . ."
"And realised that I was not a cad—what?"
"Oh, milor!" she protested. "But why—why did you not tell me before?"
"It had escaped my memory. And if I remember rightly, you spent most of the time when I had the honour of walking with you, in giving me elaborate and interesting accounts of your difficulties, and I, in listening to them."
"Oh!" she exclaimed vehemently. "I hate that man! I hate him!"