But she meant to see the letter. Even as she watched Isabel snatch the surrendered missive, Flavia told herself that this sentence of error could not be accepted without sight of the letter. Moving with deliberate stateliness, she crossed to a chair near a small table and sat down, taking up a book. She was conscious that Rupert watched her, and she would make no sign that might constitute a self-betrayal when recounted to Gerard if she were indeed so pitifully wrong and he had from the first chosen her cousin. What she was not in the least aware of, was the inevitable impression made upon the mechanician by the dazzling little room and her central figure of gold upon gold and pearl-and-amber, and by her still, colorless face set in all this sheen and lustre. Had he been as dull as he really was acute, this scene could not have been made casual to him.
Isabel's shaking fingers shredded the envelope in extracting the sheet of paper, her eyes scanned the page avidly. The result was unanticipated; there was a sharp cry, an instant of indecision, then as savagely as she had claimed the letter she sprang to thrust it into the startled Flavia's lap.
"I can't do it! Flavia, I can't see him—I can't bear it! Tell him no—to go away—it's all over, now."
The desperate terror and dread of the cry charged the atmosphere of the room with vibrant intensity. Flavia caught the letter.
"I am to read this?" she demanded.
"Yes; read it, help me."
Isabel had seen and still claimed as hers the message. Yes, and had expected it, so that there must have been other communication between her and the sender. The conviction of her own utter mistake struck Flavia down with a force that crushed reason under feeling. She was physically giddy as she unfolded the page.
The writing was uncertain and angular; different indeed from the firm smooth script that had accompanied the box of yellow roses in giving the "definition of the meaning of Flavia Rose." The mute evidence of that difficult left-handed task pierced the girl who loved Allan Gerard, before she read the words.
The letter commenced abruptly, without superscription.
"I think you will know how hard it is for me to speak to you calmly, even this way, across this distance, remembering how we last met. To you I can confess what I could to no one else, since there is now an end of concealment between us; that is, that Allan Gerard is so weak as to feel shame at being a cripple. So much so, that the idea is intolerable of first remeeting you amidst your household's pitying curiosity. I never used to know I had a personal vanity; I fancy it is not quite that, but rather the humiliation of the man who has always been well-dressed and who suddenly finds himself sent into public sight in a shabby, tattered garment. I had accepted my physical conventionality as part of my social equipment. I do not say this in reproach to anyone or to affect you; I am perfectly sure that you will not offer me the last insult of supposing so or of answering me from that viewpoint. I say it only to excuse my very great presumption in asking you to drive with Corrie to the little railway station, to-morrow morning, to take leave of him—and to tell me whether I am to come back. I want you to see me as I am now, before you determine. Perhaps, left to my own impulse of shielding you, I would have gone in silence, but justice is higher than sentiment; you have the right to hear what I must say and to answer it as you will.