"She won't see me?" asked David in a whisper.
She made an effort to swallow. "When she got your letter, I was writing to you. I—I have behaved very badly. I had no idea—I did not think of the consequences. Hilda has never—the letters you've received haven't come from Hilda.... All the letters have come from me."
He did not start. Only his eyes showed that he had heard. He stood gazing at her—and she knew that she had killed something in him. The dark lips moved. Watching them, she understood that he said "From you?"
"Yes," she muttered. "It was I who wrote about your poems. I've written all the letters. Hilda hasn't written. Hilda has never heard from you before.... She didn't send you her likeness—I sent it. You wanted mine; I'm deformed—I didn't like to tell you—I sent Hilda's.... I didn't think it would matter—I didn't think long enough—it was an impulse. I shall never forgive myself as long as I live; nothing can tell you how ashamed I am!... You're a stranger to Hilda; she doesn't—it's impossible—you're a stranger to her."
She was trembling violently. She put out a hand to a chair, and sat down. David still stood motionless, his gaze fixed.
"A stranger to her," he echoed.
"She only met you at Godstone. There was nothing at Godstone to—to make you hope she might care for you, was there? Was there?"
"No," he said dully; "no, there was nothing at Godstone to make me hope she might care for me. It was at Godstone I began to love her, that's all.... Your name is 'Bee '?"
"My name is 'Hebe,'" she answered bitterly. "I am called 'Bee' for—for short."
"I understand; Hilda has never written to me—she has never heard from me before. I understand, of course; you've explained it, and—and I do understand, I think. But all the same ... I have believed she——Oh, God!" he broke out, "it was a cruel thing to do. Why? What for? Wasn't I wretched enough? To do this to me—for nothing! to spare your petty pride."