Looking-over her shoulder, while she put pen to paper, he began to dictate:
"This is the last letter you will ever receive from me. All is over between us. I need not enter into explanations. I have tried and I have failed. Do not think badly of me. It was beyond my strength. Good-by. I shall not tell you where I've gone, but remind you of what Brockton told you the last time he saw you. He is here now, dictating this letter. What I am doing is voluntary—my own suggestion. Don't grieve. Be happy and successful. I do not love you——"
When she came to the last sentence, she stopped, laid her pen down, and looked up at the broker.
"Will—please—" she protested.
But he insisted.
"It has got to go just that way," he said determinedly. "'I do not love you.' Sign it 'Laura.' Fold it, put it in an envelope—seal it—address it. Shall I mail it?"
She hesitated, and then stammered:
"No. If you don't mind, I'd sooner mail it myself. It's a sort of a last—last message, you know. I'd like to send it myself."
Brockton went to the armchair, took his coat, and put it on.
"All right," he said cheerily. "You're a little upset now, and I'm going. We are all to dine together to-night at seven-thirty. There'll be a party. Of course you'll come."