he
actually did. She wanted time to think!

With the weak good nature that was in Nigel, curiously side by side with
a certain cruel hardness, he now felt a little sorry for her. It must be
awful to be waiting like this. And she really had been in the wrong. It
was an appalling thing to do--mad, hysterical, dangerous. It might have
caused far more trouble than it had! Suppose Percy had believed it all!

Nigel thought of scandals, divorces, all sorts of things. Yes, after
all, Kellynch had really been kind; and clever. He was not a bad sort.
Then Nigel found that last little letter of Bertha's. How sweet it was!
But he saw through it now, that she was deeply happy and didn't want to
be bothered with him. She forgave the scene his wife had made at the
party, as not one woman in a hundred would do--but she didn't want him.
The moment she realised that he wanted to flirt with her, that there was
even a chance of his loving her, she was simply bored. Yes, that was
it--gay, amusing, witty, attractive Nigel bored her! Dull, serious,
conventional Percy did not! She was in love with him.

In books and plays it was always the other way: it was the husband that
was the bore; but romances and comedies are often far away from life.
Curious as it seemed, this was life, and Nigel realised it. He destroyed
her letter and went down to dinner.

They were quiet at dinner, talked a little only for the servants. Nigel
asked about the little girl.

"How's Marjorie getting on with her music lessons?"

Mary answered in a low voice that the teacher thought she had talent.
...

They were left alone.

"Well, what is it, Nigel?" She spoke in querulous, frightened voice.

They were sitting in the boudoir again. Coffee had been left on the
table.

Nigel lighted a cigarette.

He was still a little sorry for her. Then he said:

"Look here, Mary, I'm sorry to say I've found out you've been doing a
very terrible thing! I ask you not to deny it, because I know it. The
only chance of our ever being in peace together again, or in peace at
all, is for you to speak the truth."

She did not answer.

"I've forgiven heaps of things--frightful tempers, mad suspicions, that
disgraceful scene you made at our party--but I always thought you were
honourable and truthful. What you've done is very dishonourable. Don't
make it worse by denying it." He paused. "You have written five
anonymous letters, dictated in typewriting, about me and Mrs. Kellynch