"Yes—from New York. There was some mistake. I didn't get those letters until long after—until I reached New York—until after I had seen you. Meanwhile, I feared—that you had cooled—that Olga had done something to change you—"
"Not that—"
"I feared her. I knew then that she was capable of anything. I heard that she was again in New York and sensed that you must have seen her—"
"I did see her," he put in grimly.
"I didn't know what had happened. I made up my mind to ignore her—to ignore you—to forget you and to make you forget, if I could, what had happened."
"That was impossible."
"I knew it, but I tried. O my dear, if you had known my pains at making you suffer! It was hard. But I did it. When you came to the house—"
"Don't speak of that," he muttered. "It was not Hermia that I saw."
"Not this Hermia. It was a girl that even I did not know. I had rehearsed that conversation and I carried it through to the end."
"The end—of all things, it seemed."