She laughed a little—not flinching at all—her face rosy to his challenge.
"Oh, yes, they are—or should be. What's the use of blackening the past because it couldn't be the present. My dear Roger, if I hadn't—well, let's talk plainly!—if I hadn't thrown you over, where would you be now? We should be living in West Kensington, and I should be taking boarders—or—no!—a country-house, perhaps, with paying guests. You would be teaching the cockney idea how to shoot, at half a guinea a day, and I should be buying my clothes second-hand through the Exchange and Mart. Whereas—whereas——"
She bent forward again.
"You are a very rich man—you have a charming wife—a dear little girl—you can get into Parliament—travel, speculate, race, anything you please. And I did it all!"
"I don't agree with you," he said drily. She laughed again.
"Well, we can't argue it—can we? I only wanted to point out to you the plain, bare truth, that there is nothing in the world to prevent our being excellent friends again—now. But first—and once more—my letters!"
Her tone was a little peremptory, and Roger's face clouded.
"I found two of them last night, by the merest chance—in an old dispatch-box I took to America. They were posted to you on the way here."
"Good! But there were three."
"I know—so you said. I could only find two."