"I'm not laughing. I wrote it. I sent it down by Gladys. If you recall the day to her she'll remember."
She watched his face. It had turned suddenly grey, as though some one had slipped a grey mask over the original features.
She thought, "Now perhaps he'll kill me. I'm not sorry."
He whispered, leaning quite close to her as though he were afraid she would not hear.
"You wrote that letter to Morris?"
"I did." Then suddenly springing up, half out of bed, she cried, "You're not to touch him. Do you hear? You're not to touch him! It's not his fault. He's had nothing to do with this. He's only my friend. I love him, but he doesn't love me. Do you hear? He's had nothing to do with this!"
"You love him!" whispered Brandon.
"I've loved him since the first moment I saw him. I've wanted some one to love for years--years and years and years. You didn't love me, so then I hoped Falk would, and Falk didn't, so then I found the first person--any one who would be kind to me. And he was kind--he is kind--the kindest man in the world. And he saw that I was lonely, so he let me talk to him and go to him--but none of this is his doing. He's only been kind. He--"
"Your letter says 'Dearest'," said Brandon. "If you wrote that letter it says 'Dearest'."
"That was my foolishness. It was wrong of me. He told me that I mustn't say anything affectionate. He's good and I'm bad. And I'm bad because you've made me."