Goldwin was drawing something from an inner side-pocket of his evening-coat. "Truly," he said, in dry, tepid tones, "I have no idea." He fidgeted with the required something while he thus spoke. The next moment he had produced it. It was a slim packet of letters.
"I want to give you these," he said, with a brief, formal bow.
He handed her the packet. She examined it for several minutes.
"Your letters," he answered, with a slight repetition of his recent bow.
She thrust the packet into her bosom. "You ... you have kept all these?" she questioned, after hiding them.
"Yes," he said.
"And you give them back to me now," she pursued, "with a meaning? Well, with what meaning?"
Goldwin walked quietly toward the doorway that led into the adjacent hall. "Oh, if you want the meaning put brutally," he said, using a tone and demeanor of much suavity, "I ... I—well, I am tired."
"Tired?" she repeated. Her next sentence was a sort of gasp. "You—you hate me for what I have done!"