Mrs. Dale. Oh, I don’t dispute their authenticity—it’s yours I deny!
Ventnor. Mine?
Mrs. Dale. You voluntarily ceased to be the man who wrote me those letters—you’ve admitted as much. You traded paper for flesh and blood. I don’t dispute your wisdom—only you must hold to your bargain! The letters are all mine.
Ventnor (groping between two tones). Your arguments are as convincing as ever. (He hazards a faint laugh.) You’re a marvellous dialectician—but, if we’re going to settle the matter in the spirit of an arbitration treaty, why, there are accepted conventions in such cases. It’s an odious way to put it, but since you won’t help me, one of them is—
Mrs. Dale. One of them is—?
Ventnor. That it is usual—that technically, I mean, the letter—belongs to its writer—
Mrs. Dale (after a pause). Such letters as these?
Ventnor. Such letters especially—
Mrs. Dale. But you couldn’t have written them if I hadn’t—been willing to read them. Surely there’s more of myself in them than of you.
Ventnor. Surely there’s nothing in which a man puts more of himself than in his love-letters!