She turned from the window and going to the little bureau by the door opened the secret drawer and took out the packet of letters. Then drawing an armchair close to the table and the lamp she sat down, undid the ribbon and began to read the letters.
She felt just as though Juliet were talking to her, telling her of her troubles. She read on placing each letter on the table in turn, one upon the other.
The chimes of St. Michael’s came through the open window but they were unheeded.
When she had read through all the letters she picked out one. The one containing the passionate declaration of Juliet’s love.
She re-read it and then placed it on the table on top of the others.
If she could speak of Richard like that!
But she could do nothing and say nothing. It is one of the curses of womanhood that a woman may not say to a man “I love you,” that the initiative is taken out of her hands.
Phyl was a creature of impulse and it was now for the first time in her life that she recognised this fatal barrier on the woman’s side. With the recognition came the impulse to over jump it.
He cared for her, she knew, or had cared for her. She felt that it only required a movement on her side, a touch, a word to destroy the ice that had formed between them. If he were to go away he might never return, nay, he would never return, of that she felt sure.
And he would go away unless she spoke. She must speak, not to-morrow in the cold light of day when things were impossible, but now, at once, she would say to him simply the truth, “I love you.” If he were to turn away or repulse her it would kill her. No matter, life was absolutely nothing.