This is a copy of a letter which you may remember. The original was so crumpled that I can’t help thinking you were romantic enough to sleep with it under your pillow. It begins: My very dear friend....
Catherine.
[Interrupting.] How did you get that?
George Winter.
I can never understand why people are such fools as to write love-letters. I never do. I only send telegrams.
Catherine.
[With flashing eyes.] You didn’t go to my dressing-case?
George Winter.
[Amused.] I did indeed.
Catherine.