"It was something," he repeated. "Something from the other side. A lifting of the curtain. For you; not for me. Well," he sighed, "no more letters."
"Why not?"
"Why should there be? Whatever I've got to say to you I can say direct, now that the secret is out. It was really to you that I was writing all the time, so it appears."
"It wasn't. It was to her. How do you know she doesn't know; doesn't read them—and love them? You must keep them up, Bobs."
He shook his head. But his veiled glance roved to the mahogany desk in the corner. Instantly Pat interpreted it:
"There's one there. An unfinished one. Let me read it."
"As you like. It's only just begun. About your engagement. It doesn't matter anyway now. A lost illusion."
From a locked secret drawer he took the letter, only a single sheet. An inspiration came to Pat. "I'm going to add a P. S. May I?"
"Yes."