"Now," he said, "wouldn't it be wise of you to go to bed?"
She made a movement that was almost convulsive. She had his note still clasped in her hand.
After a moment, without lifting her eyes, she spoke. "Percival, why did you—what made you—write this?"
"I owed it to you," he said.
"You—meant it?" she said, with an effort.
"Yes. I meant it." He spoke with complete steadiness.
"But—but—" She struggled with herself for an instant; then, "Oh, I've got to tell you!" she burst forth passionately. "I'm—very wicked."
"No," he said quietly, and laid a constraining hand upon her as she sat. "That is not so."
She contracted at his touch. "You don't know me. I wrote you a note this evening, trying to explain. I told you I meant to leave you. But—I didn't mean you to read it till I was gone. Did you read it?"
"No," he said. "I guessed what you had done."