KATE. [Shaking a motherly head.] Better not ask.
SIR HARRY. I do ask. Tell me.
KATE. It is kinder not to tell you.
SIR HARRY. [Violently.] Then, by James, it was one of my own pals. Was it Bernard Roche? [She shakes her head.] It may have been some one who comes to my house still.
KATE. I think not. [Reflecting.] Fourteen years! You found my letter that night when you went home?
SIR HARRY. [Impatient.] Yes.
KATE. I propped it against the decanters. I thought you would be sure to see it there. It was a room not unlike this, and the furniture was arranged in the same attractive way. How it all comes back to me. Don't you see me, Harry, in hat and cloak, putting the letter there, taking a last look round, and then stealing out into the night to meet——
SIR HARRY. Whom?
KATE. Him. Hours pass, no sound in the room but the tick-tack of the clock, and then about midnight you return alone. You take——
SIR HARRY. [Gruffly.] I wasn't alone.