Mrs. Dale (taking the packet and looking at him earnestly). Why have you brought me these?
Ventnor. I didn’t bring them; they came because I came—that’s all. (Tentatively.) Are we unwelcome?
Mrs. Dale (who has undone the packet and does not appear to hear him). The very first I ever wrote you—the day after we met at the concert. How on earth did you happen to keep it? (She glances over it.) How perfectly absurd! Well, it’s not a compromising document.
Ventnor. I’m afraid none of them are.
Mrs. Dale (quickly). Is it to that they owe their immunity? Because one could leave them about like safety matches?—Ah, here’s another I remember—I wrote that the day after we went skating together for the first time. (She reads it slowly.) How odd! How very odd!
Ventnor. What?
Mrs. Dale. Why, it’s the most curious thing—I had a letter of this kind to do the other day, in the novel I’m at work on now—the letter of a woman who is just—just beginning—
Ventnor. Yes—just beginning—?
Mrs. Dale. And, do you know, I find the best phrase in it, the phrase I somehow regarded as the fruit of—well, of all my subsequent discoveries—is simply plagiarized, word for word, from this!
Ventnor (eagerly). I told you so! You were all there!