Suddenly he knew that the sonnet, on the envelope, blood-soaked, was burning in his hand. He raised it.
“Careful, dear!” she murmured. “Don't move.”
“We've quarreled, Grace—”
“Yes, I know.”
“I haven't been—decent, even—”
She was silent.
“But when I saw you to-night—” He unfolded the envelope. “I wrote this to-night. Up in the gallery...”
Slowly, in a low voice that trembled with passion, he read it to her. And he saw the tears crowd out and slowly fall. He had his effect.
“Grace, dear—”
“Yes, Peter.”