rted across to the bureau (of which the
lid was permanently down and laden with papers and portfolios), and
scrutinised the pigeon-holes. These were always open to her without
restriction, but she had never thought of examining the contents, though
she had often put away papers and receipts for him. She made a quick,
feverish inspection of them now, not hoping to find the letters she
sought in a place thus conspicuous, but yet fearful of overlooking them.
The pigeon-holes yielded in fact nothing to interest her, and then with
trembling fingers she turned out the little drawers, one at a time,
replacing the contents of each carefully before proceeding to the next.
She was reckless now, having no control over itself. She did not fear
his sudden arrival on the scene; she would face him--she would taunt him
with the truth!

Suddenly her physical powers seemed to break down, and she clutched at
the bureau for support. And as soon as she had steadied herself, she was
glad to drag over a chair, and continue her search with feeble, tired
movements. And with this abrupt collapse, her crude, violent emotions
seemed to have blazed themselves out. She felt now a poor forlorn,
helpless creature; her eyes were wet with tears, and she was choking
down her sobs. And it seemed to her that she was gulping down an
infinite bitterness. "I have it," she said suddenly, a momentary
illumination flitting across her features. He had once shown her in
this old provincial French bureau a receptacle which he had spoken of as
his secret drawer, a space neatly stowed away amid the other surrounding
spaces so that its ingenious existence might remain reasonably
unsuspected. She immediately stopped her operations, replacing things
with a movement that was increasingly languid and feeble; and eventually
opened the principal compartment in the centre which was on a level with
the writing-lid. Removing all its contents, she inserted her nail in a
little innocent slit, made the floor of the compartment slide along,
then thrust her hand into the space revealed.

Clearly a packet of letters was there. She drew it forth--over a dozen
of them, carefully preserved in their fashionable-looking envelopes and
tied together with a broad piece of tape. A faint perfume of violets was
in her nostrils as she handled them. And this packet, too, seemed
strangely imbued with the personality of their writer, reminiscent of a
world of dream and books. How remote from her