"Then it is because she doesn't know it!" I explained. "You see, mother is still too grieved to mention the matter to any one by telephone—and it happens that she hasn't met Mrs. Walker face to face since the offer was made."
"And—rejected?" he asked, with a little smile.
"Yes, but how did you know?"
The smile sobered.
"There are some things one knows," he answered. "Yet, after all, what are you going to do with the letters? If you don't publish them now how are you going to be sure that some other—some future possessor will not?"
"I can't be sure—that's the reason I'm not going to run any risks," I told him. "I'm going to burn them."
He started.
"But that would be rather a pity, wouldn't it?" he asked. "She was such a noted writer that I imagine her letters are full of literary value."
"It would be a cold-blooded thing for me to do," I said thoughtfully. "I've an idea that some day I'll take them back to England and—and burn them there."
"A sort of feeling that they'd enjoy being buried on their native soil?" he asked.