He pointed to the fire.
"Who put it in the fire?" she asked. "You?"
He inclined his head.
"Ah yes, always so clever! A burst of indignation at his daring to suspect me even for an instant, and with a flourish into the fire, the evidence. Here is yours—your letter. Would you like to put it into the fire also?" she asked, and drew his letter from the folds of her dress.
"But, no, no, no—" She suddenly sprang to her feet, and her eyes had a look of agonized agitation. "When I have learned every word by heart, I will burn it myself—for your sake." Her voice grew softer, something less discordant came into it. "You will never understand. You could never understand me, or that letter of Adrian Fellowes to me, and that he could dare to write me such a letter. You could never understand it. But I understand you. I understand your letter. It came while I was—while I was broken. It healed me, Ian. Last night I wanted to kill myself. Never mind why. You would not understand. You are too good to understand. All night I was in torture, and then this letter of yours—it was a revelation. I did not think that a man lived like you, so true, so kind, so mad. And so I wrote you a letter, ah, a letter from my soul! and then came down to this—the end of all. The end of everything—forever."
"No, the beginning if you will have it so.... Rudyard loves you ..."
She gave a cry of agony. "For God's sake—oh, for God's sake, hush! ... You think that now I could ..."
"Begin again with new purpose."
"Purpose! Oh, you fool! You fool! You fool—you who are so wise sometimes! You want me to begin again with Rudyard: and you do not want me to begin again—with you?"
He was silent, and he looked her in the eyes steadily.