“No. I suppose not. In fact, I quite see the force of all you say. Still, it’s horrible, revolting.”
“Yes. Believe me, Bayfield, I am as distressed about it as you are. But there is this consolation. Not an atom of real harm has been done so far. Lyn is in blissful ignorance as to who it was she met, and there is no reason on earth why she should ever know.”
Even while he spoke there occurred to him another aspect of the case—and the probability that this had not been overlooked by Lyn’s father occurred to him too. Would not the latter regard him as upon much the same plane as Hermia herself?
“You see,” he went on, “I shall be clearing out the first thing in the morning, so she,” with a jerk of the thumb in the direction of far-away Earle’s, “is not likely to give you any further trouble. Besides, after giving herself away like this, she will have to go her way as well. If she doesn’t, I advise you to let Earle into the story. She won’t be long there after that. By the way, would you mind letting me see exactly what she has said? We shall know better where we are then.”
“Yes, I think so,” said the other.
Blachland took the letter and read it through carefully and deliberately from end to end. It was a narrative of their liaison, and that only. But the blame of its initiation the writer ascribed to himself. This he pointed out to Bayfield.
“The boot was, if anything on the other foot,” he said. “But let that pass. Now, why do you suppose she has given all this away?”
“To revenge herself upon you for leaving her.”
“But I didn’t leave her. She left me—cleared with a young ass of a prospector, during one of my necessary absences, of which I notice, she’s careful not to say one word. Clearly she never bargained for my seeing this at all.”
“By Jove! You don’t say so?”