"So am I," said David.
The drudge had burst in with the glasses. Vivian got up, and lounged about the room. "Is that where you write?" he asked. He wandered to the smaller table in a corner, on which some manuscript lay, and swung round with an ejaculation:
"Good heavens! How did you get this?" He held up Hilda's photograph.
The answer to David's question had come. It reverberated as if he had been unprepared. Almost he felt that he had been unprepared. He stared at his brother mutely.
"This is her likeness.... Isn't this Hilda Sorrenford? How did you get it?"
"She sent it to me," replied David, dragging out his voice.
"Sent it to you? ... Sent it to you? Why, she doesn't know you!"
"Oh yes, she knows me. That is, she writes to me."
"Writes to you?"
"Yes."