For an instant, as she stood limply drying her eyes, I thought of telling her that I had destroyed the letter; then I saw that this would never be forgiven me, even if I had not already told her that it was with my other papers.
“It will only hurt you to read it,” I said. “Forget it! Forget him, if you can. I’ve told you he had nothing but love for you . . .”
“Then why mayn’t I see it? George, I don’t understand! I’m not a child; and, if I didn’t know you were trying to spare me, I could almost kill you for your ghastly kindness. Pocketing it for twelve torturing days, as though it were a bill! Pretending he was too weak to write! Saying it was a message! You’ll send me mad if you’re not careful!,” she cried hysterically. “For the last time, please give me my letter.”
“For the last time please try to forget there ever was a letter. I’ve told you he must have been delirious when he wrote. I won’t answer for the consequences if you read it. All this time I’ve been trying to forget it.” . . .
My voice told her all that I was trying to hide. Her eyes were startled, then compassionate, then defiant. I thought I heard a whisper of ‘Poor George’. She raised her eyebrows as though to ask what I was minded to do. Getting no answer, she shrugged her shoulders and turned wearily to the fire:
“Was that why you left London?” I said nothing. “You told me it was on business. And you’ve been . . . sitting in judgement on me ever since.” . . .
I took a step forward and tried to catch her hand:
“It has made no difference.” . . .
“Put it down to my curiosity!,” she taunted. “It’s not pleasant . . . to be . . . condemned unheard; but I couldn’t bear to be acquitted. Your despatch-box, you said?”
“Babs, I implore you!,” I cried, as she moved to the bell.