Which she did. Her mother heard her moving adroitly about, heard her brushing her hair, and, at last, the wild shriek of a spring cot, bought second-hand the day before. For half an hour Angelica lay quite still; then suddenly she sat up. "_You!_" she whispered, with a sob. "_You!_ You go to hell! I don’t care!" CHAPTER THIRTEEN I Angelica was surprised at getting a letter the next morning, for she never got letters. The writing was necessarily unfamiliar, as there was none that would not have been. She opened it. "Angelica, beloved girl!" it began. "I can’t do it!" "Why, my Gawd!" she whispered. "It’s from _him_!" I can’t give you up! I tried--God knows I did, but I can’t! I can’t think of consequences, of honour, of anything but this heavenly madness that is destroying me. Even if I lose my soul, even if it brings ruin and misery upon you whom I worship, I must have you, Angelica! Oh, come back to me! Come back to me! The farce is over. I have played my rôle of prudent, honourable man of the world. Here I am now, without reserve, without the smallest shred of worldly wisdom, without conscience, without civilization; nothing, my Angelica, but a man! Nothing but your lover, VINCENT. She was wild with joy. She set to work with terrific energy, the letter crushed inside her blouse. She insisted upon finishing the ironing which Mrs. Kennedy had tried to do for a tenant before she became ill. She stood over the ironing-board singing in her rather husky voice. Nothing but a misunderstanding, after all! He did love her, he had only tried to do what was right. She felt a profound pity for him, her poor poet, who had done his very best to protect her, until love overwhelmed him. "You _bet_ I’ll go back to him!" she said to herself. Her mother was alarmed. She saw--who could help it?--the exaltation of her child, and she wished to know the cause. Poor woman! She feared joy with all her soul. "Who was that other man you went out with last night, Angie?" she asked. "Oh! The brother of the other feller." Her mother reflected. "You seem to like him better," she said at last. "Yes, I do." "Is he nice?" "Yes, he is." "But you’re not----?" "I don’t know, mommer!" she answered, laughing. "Deary! I wish you’d _tell_ me!" "There’s nothing to tell." "But, my deary, don’t be foolish. Don’t be hasty! Try to find out if he’s--a good man, before you let yourself think about him. _Is_ he a good man, Angie?" "He’s a good-looking one, anyway," Angelica answered flippantly. "Now, mommer dear, please don’t worry about _me_. I’m not a fool!" "But you’re young, Angie, and you’re very hasty. I do worry about you. You never tell me anything. You won’t listen to me." Angelica, with that letter next her heart, was patient. "I do listen to you, mommer. Now, do you want a glass of milk?"