“I didn’t think you were displeased.” He was too chivalrous to remind her of that moonlight night.
“It was very wrong,” she repeated, stubbornly.
“Then forgive me.”
“It’s nothing to me,” she returned, unmoved.
“I hoped it would be,” said Lynn, gently. “Every time, I walked over to the next town to mail them. I knew you hadn’t seen any of my writing, and I was sure you wouldn’t suspect me.”
“Nice advantage to take of a girl, wasn’t it?” demanded Iris, her temper rising.
She rose and started toward the door, but Lynn kept her back. The starlight showed him her face, white and troubled. “Sweetheart,” he said, “listen. Just a moment, dear—that isn’t much to ask, is it? If it was wrong to write the letters, then I ask you to forgive me, but every word was true. I love you, Iris—I love you with all my heart.”
“With all your heart,” she repeated, scornfully. “You have no heart!”
“Iris,” he said, unsteadily, “what do you mean?”