Anne. Only to a few people—One or two.
Harold. A few people! Good heavens! [Then he controls himself, takes her hands gently in his, and continues speaking, as if to a child.] Sit down, Anne; we must talk this over a little,—very quietly, you understand, very quietly. Now to begin with, when did you first—
Anne [breaks away from him with a little laugh]. No, I'm not crazy. Don't be worried. I'm perfectly sane. I had to tell you all this to show how serious it was. Now you know. What are you going to do?
Harold. Do? [He slowly straightens up as if the knowledge of her sanity had relieved him of a heavy load.] I'm going to take the next train back to New York.
Anne. And leave me to get out of this before people all alone?
Harold. You got into it without my assistance, didn't you? Great Scott, you forged those letters in cold blood—
Anne. Not in cold blood, Harold. Remember, I cared.
Harold. I don't believe it. [Accusingly.] You enjoyed writing those letters!
Anne. Of course I enjoyed it. It meant thinking of you, talking of—
Harold. Rot! Not of me, really. You didn't think I am really the sort of person who could write that—that drivel!