[She has observed his eye wandering to the desk.
SIR HARRY. You are welcome to it as a gift.
[The fateful letter, a poor little dead thing, is brought to light from a locked drawer.
KATE. [Taking it.] Yes, this is it. Harry, how you did crumple it! [She reads, not without curiosity.] "Dear husband—I call you that for the last time—I am off. I am what you call making a bolt of it. I won't try to excuse myself nor to explain, for you would not accept the excuses nor understand the explanation. It will be a little shock to you, but only to your pride; what will astound you is that any woman could be such a fool as to leave such a man as you. I am taking nothing with me that belongs to you. May you be very happy.—Your ungrateful Kate. P.S.—You need not try to find out who he is. You will try, but you won't succeed." [She folds the nasty little thing up.] I may really have it for my very own?
SIR HARRY. You really may.
KATE. [Impudently.] If you would care for a typed copy——?
SIR HARRY. [In a voice with which he used to frighten his grandmother.] None of your sauce! [Wincing.] I had to let them see it in the end.
KATE. I can picture Jack Lamb eating it.
SIR HARRY. A penniless parson's daughter.
KATE. That is all I was.