At length—
“I give you it back,” she said, “unconditionally.” The letter passed. “You should never have written it, Roger; but that was my fault. I’ve been a fool, and I’ve made a fool of you. And between us I quite believe we’ve driven Derry and Rosemary into each other’s arms. . . . Well, it’s no less than we deserve. Derry’s a wonderful husband, and Rosemary’s a peach of a wife.”
“So she is,” muttered Roger.
“But now . . . we’ve fed them up. . . . How far it’s gone—how long it’s been going on I haven’t the faintest idea. And how on earth we’re to stop it I can’t tell. If your idea will do that, I’m ready to try. But I will not put it across them. I—haven’t—the right.”
Chase tugged his moustache.
“Virginia,” he said, “I can’t let you talk like that. I’m too much—ashamed. I’m not going to say I regret the—the interlude, because that wouldn’t be true. You see, I’m only human, while you’re divine. But it’s been a shady business, and I’m frankly ashamed. Which of us two has been to blame won’t bear argument. I started it—that we both know: and to-night you’ve—you’ve ended it, dear.” He took the slight fingers in his and put them to his lips. “As for Derry and Rosemary, I’ve no doubt you’re right. If they’re assembling, we’ve only ourselves to thank. But I’m ready and willing to bet it’s not gone very far. If I’m right, the threat of exposure will kill it dead. An affair like this, while it’s young, can be frightened to death.”
“After all,” said Virginia slowly, “you ought to know. And I hope to Heaven you’re right. I like you, Roger, you know. And I’m fond of you—in a way. But the thought of losing Derry . . .”
She let the sentence go and put her face in her hands.
Captain Chase had switched on the light and was scribbling on the back of his envelope.
After a correction or two—