“I don’t know,” snapped Edith; “but I won’t leave him with that other woman if I can help it; I don’t trust all that Platonic nonsense. I am going to bed;” and she went.
But Tabitha still sat for a long time and gazed at the moonlit desert, there making her accustomed prayers.
“Oh! God in heaven,” she ended them, “help those two poor people whom Thou hast tried so sorely,” and as she spoke the words a conviction came into her mind that they would be heard. Then, feeling comforted, she too went to her bed.
In the morning Edith received a note from Rupert; it was the first time that she had seen his handwriting for many a year. It ran:
Dear Edith,—I will not debate the strange circumstances in which we find ourselves, and I write to ask that during the ensuing month you will avoid all allusion to them. The facts are known to us both, to discuss them further can only lead to unnecessary bitterness, and perhaps prevent a peaceful solution of the trouble. If you agree to this, I write on behalf of the lady Tama and myself to say that we are ready to enter into a like undertaking, and that we shall be happy to see you here whenever you wish.
If, on the other hand, you do not agree, then I think that we had best keep apart until the day when I have promised to give an answer to your question. A messenger will bring me your written reply.
Rupert.
Edith thought a while, then she took a piece of paper and wrote upon it with a pencil:
I agree.
EDITH.