er?" she said with an
aching laugh, through which tears ran, though none dropped from her
eyes. "If one is untrue to one, why not to a thousand?"

Again a mocking laugh burst from her. "Don't you see? One kiss, a
wrong? Why not, then, a thousand kisses! The wrong came in the moment
that the one kiss was given. It is the one that kills, not the thousand
after."

There came to her mind again--and now with what sardonic
force--Rudyard's words that day before they went to Glencader: "If you
had lived a thousand years ago you would have had a thousand lovers."

"And so it is all understood between you and Rudyard," she added,
mechanically. "That is what you have arranged for me--that I go on
living as before with Rudyard, while I am not to know from him anything
has happened; but to accept what has been arranged for me, and to be
repentant and good and live in sackcloth. It has been arranged, has it,
that Rudyard is to believe in me?"

"That has not been arranged."

"It has been arranged that I am to live with him as before, and that he
is to pretend to love me as before, and--"

"He does love you as before. He has never changed. He believed in you,
was so pitifully eager to believe in you even when the letter--"

"Where is the letter?"

He pointed to the fire.

"Who put it in the fire?" she asked. "You?"

He inclined his head.

"Ah yes, always so clever! A burst of indignation at his daring to
suspect me even for an instant, and with a flourish into the fire, the
evidence. Here is yours--your letter. Would you like to put it into the
fire also?" she asked, and drew his letter from the folds of her dress.

"But, no, no, no--" She suddenly sprang to her feet, and her eyes had a
look of agonized agitation. "When I have learned every word by heart, I
will burn it myself--for your sake." Her voice grew softer, something
less discordant came into it. "You will never understand. You could
never understand me, or that letter of Adrian Fellowes to me, and that
he could dare to write me such a letter. You could never understand it.
But I understand you. I understand your letter. It came while I
was--while I was broken. It healed me, Ian. Last night I wanted to kill
myself. Never mind why. You would not understand. You are too good to
understand. All night I was in torture, and then this letter of
yours--it was a revelation. I did not think that a man lived like you,
so true, so kind, so mad. And so I wrote you a letter