Glancing sharply at her, I saw that her eyes did not waver.
“It is true I once knew a woman who proved false and infamous,” I replied, with some emphasis.
“And you avenge yourself by reviling all of us. It is really too bad!” she said, pouting like a spoiled child.
“By Jove, old fellow,” Dick chimed in, “do tell us about your romance! It would be interesting to know the reason you set your face against all the fair ones.”
But I succeeded in turning the conversation into another channel. I saw I had intruded upon them, so, making an excuse, I bade them au revoir, and returned to my own book-lined den.
Unlocking a drawer in my writing-table, I took out a packet of letters that still emitted a stale odour of violets. Then I lit my pipe, and one by one read them through, pausing and pondering over the declarations of passionate love they contained. Far into the night I sat reviewing the romance of bygone days, until I came to the last letter. It was a cold, formal note, merely a few lines of hurried scrawl, and read: “You are right. I have been false to you. Think no more of me. By the time you receive this I shall be on my way to New York; nevertheless, you will be always remembered by yours unworthily—Ethel.” Bitter memories of the past overwhelmed me; but at last, growing impatient, and tossing the letters back into the drawer, I strove to forget. The clock had struck two, and my reading-lamp was burning low and sputtering when I rose to retire for the night. I confess that my frame of mind surprised me, inasmuch as I actually found myself still loving her.
“Good afternoon. I hope I don’t disturb you.”
Looking up from my work, I saw Ethel.
“Not at all. Pray sit down,” I said coldly, motioning her to an armchair. “To what do I owe the honour of this visit?”