DeLaunay swung around in his chair and rose, facing the hostess.
“There must be no misunderstanding between us,” decisively, “I shall go at once.”
“That’s your decision—your final decision?”
“It is—final.”
By this time she stood beside him at the desk, and as she spoke her finger pointed to the paper and ink.
“Then you must write her to-night—before you go. It would not be fair to leave matters to me. It is not fair to her or to yourself. Sit down, Monsieur, and write.”
He sank into the chair again.
“And what shall I write?”
“If I can help you——” sweetly.