"Rachael may get her divorce," Warren said desperately. "I can't help that, I suppose. I've got a letter from her here--she left it. I don't know what she thinks! But I'll never marry Margaret Clay--that much is settled. I'll leave town--my work's ended, I might as well be dead. God knows I wish I were!"
"Just how far have you gone with Magsie?" George interrupted quietly.
"Why, nothing at all!" Warren said. "Flowers, handbags, things like that! I've kissed her, but I swear Rachael never gave me any reason to think she'd mind that."
"How often have you seen her?" George asked in a somewhat relieved tone. "Have you seen her once a week?"
"Oh, yes! I say frankly that this was a--a flirtation, George. I've seen her pretty nearly every day---"
"But she hasn't got any letters--nothing like that?"
Warren's confident expression changed.
"Well, yes, she has some letters. I--damn it! I am a fool, George! I swear I wrote them just as I might to anybody. I--I knew it mattered to her, you know, and that she looked for them. I don't know how they'd read!"
George was silent, scowling, and Warren said, "Damn it!" again nervously, before the other man said:
"What do you think she will do?"