ISABEL. Yes … naturally.
MRS. FALCINGTON. And then—you see, I wanted to know what you were like; and—and whether he was happy with you. I don't think detectives are very intelligent. They couldn't get it into their heads that I wanted the truth. They gave me a—a very lurid account of—of you. And of course Harold's letters gave me no help. So I came down to see for myself.
ISABEL. (rising) Mrs. Falcington: here is a letter that Harold was writing this morning. It tells about me—and I fancy you won't find it so essentially different from the detectives' account. Read it and see.
MRS. FALCINGTON. (reading the letter) He says he loves you.
ISABEL. In those words?
MRS. FALCINGTON. No—he says he is involved in a strange and sudden infatuation. But it means the same thing.
ISABEL. No it doesn't. He isn't in love with me. I'll tell you straight—he's in love with you.
MRS. FALCINGTON. How do you know?
ISABEL. From the letters he wrote you.
MRS. FALCINGTON. Oh! he showed them to you, did he? How like him!