"Yes." She was twisting her handkerchief.
It was this simple act which brightened his memory. He went over to his table. Her gaze, full of trouble and shame, followed him. Yes, there lay the letter; a film of dust covered it. He remembered.
"It was an answer," he said, smiling sadly. He did not quite understand. "It was an answer to my …"
"Give it to me, Monsieur; do not read it!" she begged, one hand pressing her heart, the other extended toward him appealingly.
"Not read it?" Her very agitation told him that there was something in the letter worth reading. He calmly tore it open and read the biting words, the scorn and contempt which she had penned that memorable day. The letter added nothing to the bitterness of his cup, only he was surprised at the quality of her wrath on that day. But what surprised him more was when she snatched it from his hands, rushed to the fire, and cast the letter into it. She watched it writhe and curl and crisp and vanish. He saw nothing in this action but a noble regret that she had caused him pain. Nevertheless, all was not clear to him.
Silence.
"Well, Madame?"
"I … I have brought you another!" Redder than ever her face flamed. The handkerchief was resolving itself into shreds.
"Another letter?" vaguely.
"No, no! Another … another answer!"