He was still watching the fire when Netty rose and took her leave. When the door closed again Lady Orlay went towards the fire.
“What is that in which you are so deeply interested that you quite forgot to be polite?” she said to Deulin. “Is it a letter?”
“It is a love-token,” answered the Frenchman.
“For Netty Cahere?”
“No. For the woman that some poor fool supposed her to be.”
Lady Orlay touched the envelope with the toe of a slipper which was still neat and small, so that it fell into the glowing centre of the fire and was there consumed.
“Perhaps you have assumed a great responsibility,” she said.
“I have, and I shall carry it lightly to heaven if I get there.”
“It has a smell of violets,” said Lady Orlay, looking down into the fire.
“They are violets—from Warsaw,” admitted Deulin. “Wanda is in?” he asked, gravely.