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 to her husband. I don't know what you thought, but you certainly tried to give the impression that our harmless conversations meant something more. That there was an intrigue going on. Did you really think this, may I ask?" "Yes, I did," she said, in a low voice, looking down. "Well, first allow me to assure you that you are entirely wrong. It was completely false. Can't you see now how terrible it was to suggest these absolute lies as facts to her husband? Did you write the letters?" "Yes, I did; I was in despair. I couldn't think of anything else to stop it." Nigel gave a sigh of relief. "Thank God you've admitted it, Mary. I'm glad of that. At least if we have the truth between us, we know where we are." "Did she--did she--tell you?" "She knows nothing whatever about it," said Nigel. "She has never been told, and never will be. You need worry no more about the letters. Her husband gave them to me this afternoon, and I destroyed them before him. And he doesn't know who wrote them." Nigel forgot that he had told Percy or did not choose to say. "They're completely wiped out, and will be forgotten by the person to whom you sent them. The whole affair is cleared up and finished and regarded as an unfortunate act of folly." "Oh, Nigel!" Mary burst into tears. "You're very good." "Now listen, Mary ... I can't endure to stay with you any more at present." "What!" she screamed. "If I continue this existence with you I shall grow to hate it. I wish to go away for a time." "You want to leave me!"