“That is the way I felt about it.”
“Um-hum. Well, it is the way I feel—have felt since it happened. I haven’t told you so because—well, because.”
“I understand.”
“Yes, I guess you do; you ought to know me by this time.... What’s the matter now?”
She had risen from the rocker. “Those letters!” she exclaimed. “Mine—and that one for you! I must have left them in the parlor. That talk between you and Mr. Mooney made me forget them altogether. I wouldn’t have believed anything could make me forget those.”
She ran to the parlor and returned, the letters in her hand.
“Here is yours,” she said.
He took it from her. “What is all this?” he demanded. “You were crying when you started to give it to me before. I believe you are crying now. What in the name of—”
“Read it,” she urged. “Please read it. We can talk about it afterwards.”
He tore open the envelope. She hurried to the dining room and remained there for perhaps five minutes. When she came back he was sitting there, his hand resting on his knee and the letter—Esther’s letter—between his fingers. His attitude reminded her of that dreadful evening in her own sitting-room when she had returned to find him after he had read that other letter from his niece.