_Mrs. Dale (accusingly)_. You _do_ want them. _(A pause. He makes a deprecatory gesture.)_ Why should they be less safe with me than mine with you? _I_ never forfeited the right to keep them. _Ventnor (after another pause)_. It’s compensation enough, almost, to have you reproach me! _(He moves nearer to her, but she makes no response.)_ You forget that I’ve forfeited _all_ my rights--even that of letting you keep my letters. _Mrs. Dale_. You _do_ want them! _(She rises, throws all the letters into the cabinet, locks the door and puts the key in her pocket.)_ There’s my answer. _Ventnor_. Helen--! _Mrs. Dale_. Ah, I paid dearly enough for the right to keep them, and I mean to! _(She turns to him passionately.)_ Have you ever asked yourself how I paid for it? With what months and years of solitude, what indifference to flattery, what resistance to affection?--Oh, don’t smile because I said affection, and not love. Affection’s a warm cloak in cold weather; and I _have_ been cold; and I shall keep on growing colder! Don’t talk to me about living in the hearts of my readers! We both know what kind of a domicile that is. Why, before long I shall become a classic! Bound in sets and kept on the top book-shelf--brr, doesn’t that sound freezing? I foresee the day when I shall be as lonely as an Etruscan museum! _(She breaks into a laugh.)_ That’s what I’ve paid for the right to keep your letters. _(She holds out her hand.)_ And now give me mine. _Ventnor_. Yours? _Mrs. Dale (haughtily)_. Yes; I claim them. _Ventnor (in the same tone)_. On what ground? _Mrs. Dale_. Hear the man!--Because I wrote them, of course. _Ventnor_. But it seems to me that--under your inspiration, I admit--I also wrote mine. _Mrs. Dale_. Oh, I don’t dispute their authenticity--it’s yours I deny! _Ventnor_. Mine? _Mrs. Dale_. You voluntarily ceased to be the man who wrote me those letters--you’ve admitted as much. You traded paper for flesh and blood. I don’t dispute your wisdom--only you must hold to your bargain! The letters are all mine. _Ventnor (groping between two tones)_. Your arguments are as convincing as ever. _(He hazards a faint laugh.)_ You’re a marvellous dialectician--but, if we’re going to settle the matter in the spirit of an arbitration treaty, why, there are accepted conventions in such cases. It’s an odious way to put it, but since you won’t help me, one of them is-- _Mrs. Dale_. One of them is--? _Ventnor_. That it is usual--that technically, I mean, the letter--belongs to its writer-- _Mrs. Dale (after a pause)_. Such letters as _these_? _Ventnor_. Such letters especially-- _Mrs. Dale_. But you couldn’t have written them if I hadn’t--been willing to read them. Surely there’s more of myself in them than of you. _Ventnor_. Surely there’s nothing in which a man puts more of himself than in his love-letters! _Mrs. Dale (with emotion)_. But a woman’s love-letters are like her child. They belong to her more than to anybody else--