"Why do you ask that? What possible difference can it make? They were shown me in strict confidence. I had long believed you cared more for another girl than you did for me, and these letters proved it."
"I do not admit that, Viva," is the grave, almost stern reply. "But do you mean that, after receiving my letter, you returned those that I asked for—that I had a right to see?"
"They were called for; and they were not mine to do as I chose with."
"Will you tell me how and by whom they were called for?"
He has risen now, and is standing under the chandelier, drawn to his full height.
"I do not wish to speak of it further. I have told the person that you denied the truth of them, and that is enough."
"I am sorry that you mentioned me to the person, or weighed my statements in any such scale."
"Paul Abbot!" she breaks in impetuously, rising too. "You say you never wrote to this girl, and I believe you; but tell me this: have you never seen her? do you not at this moment care for her infinitely more than you do for me?"
He considers a moment. It is a leading question; one he had not expected; but he will not stoop to the faintest equivocation. Still, he wants her to understand.
"Listen, Viva. Up to the time of your letter's coming she was a stranger to me. Now I have met her. She and her father were in the same hotel with us at Washington; and she, too, has been victimized by forged letters as you have."