"But true or not true, your brother is a scoundrel. No man--no decent
man--tells such things."
"He did not tell me. How dare you suppose it? I found the letter in his
desk; and she being my friend and you being her lover, I never thought
there could be any harm in my reading her letter to my brother. Give me
back the letter. I was a fool to tell you."
Ida Helmont held out her hand for the letter.
"Not yet," I said, and I went to the window. The dull red of a London
sunset burned on the paper, as I read in the quaint, dainty handwriting
I knew so well and had kissed so often--
"Dear, I do--I do love you; but it's impossible. I must marry
Arthur. My honour is engaged. If he would only set me free--but he
never will. He loves me so foolishly. But as for me, it is you I
love--body, soul, and spirit. There is no one in my heart but you. I
think of you all day, and dream of you all night. And we must part.
And that is the way of the world. Good-bye!--Yours, yours, yours,