“Letter-writing’s not much in my line,” he said absently, “but your mother wrote beautiful letters.”
“Whom to?” said the girl, in her turn.
“Me, when we were lovers.”
The lamp was lit, and he charily placed the globe on it. As he did so, Viola, from behind him, leaned forward and applied the letter, twisted into a spiral, to the chimney. It smoked, charred, and then went up in a flicker of flame.
“What are you doing?” he asked, staring at her in surprise.
“Burning my letter.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps because I don’t write beautiful ones like my mother.”
Her voice trembled, broke, and she burst into wild tears. The door into the room beyond was open, and she ran through the aperture and shut the door behind her.