"I can't imagine what you think of me."
No, that was obvious. He never would know either.
"I won't ask for your forgiveness, for I know I don't deserve it."
Mary smiled bitterly. Quite true again. She never would forgive him, never—for thinking that forgiveness was necessary.
"But I want to say that what happened in the cornfield was my own fault, but not my intention. I can't think what possessed me that I should behave so extraordinarily to you of all people whom I really respect so profoundly. It must have been the scent of the poppies or something. It all happened so suddenly. But please believe me it was quite unpremeditated. Think of it as a kind of momentary madness if you like—anything but an act of deliberate disrespect. I knew as soon as it happened had how appallingly I had behaved, and how angry you must be. Of course I don't expect anything so nice could happen as your writing to say you understand and forgive me.
"Yours very very sincerely,
"David Rossitur."
Poor dears! Men always thought they did it all themselves. If they only knew. Mary smiled again.
Well, she supposed she must answer it—even after a week's delay. There was no reason why he should suffer from something which he showed clearly—so very clearly—was not his fault. She would make the excuse that her husband had been ill. There had been no time to write before.
She fetched paper and envelopes and sat down, passing her tongue thirstily over dry lips. The flowers on the table were untidy. She rose again, and picking up two petals that had fallen dropped them into the waste-paper-basket.
Then she chose a pen from the inkstand, and began: