“You're so excited, Hugo. No, it's getting late now. We'd better say good-night.”
“Will you show me that letter?”
“Show you the letter? Certainly not!”
At that he made a half-spring, as if to take it by force, but checked himself, and snapped out:
“What? You won't? Well, on my word you are.... Mean's not the word for it. You're something worse....”
“Hugo!”
“Yes, you are!”
“If you will see the letter, here it is!” She thrust her hand into her blouse, took out the letter, opened it, and waved it at him, flourishing her innocence. “Here's the letter—from my mother; there's her signature—look. From mother—and now what have you to say?”
He quailed as if at a blow, and only said:
“From your mother. Why, then, it didn't matter at all?”