I had seen the handwriting, indeed, often enough. But the passion
written there was new to me. That I had not seen.
I turned from the window wearily. My sitting-room looked strange to me.
There were my books, my reading-lamp, my untasted dinner still on the
table, as I had left it when I rose to dissemble my surprise at Ida
Helmont's visit--Ida Helmont, who now sat in my easy-chair looking at me
quietly.
"Well--do you give me no thanks?"
"You put a knife in my heart, and then ask for thanks?"
"Pardon me," she said, throwing up her chin. "I have done nothing but
show you the truth. For that one should expect no gratitude--may I ask,
out of mere curiosity, what you intend to do?"
"Your brother will tell you----"
She rose suddenly, pale to the lips.
"You will not tell my brother?" she began.
"That you have read his private letters? Certainly not!"
She came towards me--her gold hair flaming in the sunset light.
"Why are you so angry with me?" she said. "Be reasonable. What else
could I do?"
"I don't know."
"Would it have been right not to tell you?"
"I don't know. I only know that you've put the sun out, and I haven't
got used to the dark yet."
"Believe me," she said, coming still nearer to me, and laying her hands
in the lightest light touch on my shoulders, "believe me, she never
loved you."
There was a softness in her tone that irritated and stimulated me. I
moved gently back, and her hands fell by her sides.
"I beg your pardon," I said. "I have behaved very badly. You were quite
right to come, and I am not ungrateful. Will you post a letter for me?"