_Ventnor_. And a man’s? _Mrs. Dale (with sudden violence)_. Are all he risks!--There, take them. _(She flings the key of the cabinet at his feet and sinks into a chair.)_ _Ventnor (starts as though to pick up the key; then approaches and bends over her)_. Helen--oh, Helen! _Mrs. Dale (she yields her hands to him, murmuring:)_ Paul! _(Suddenly she straightens herself and draws back illuminated.)_ What a fool I am! I see it all now. You want them for your memoirs! _Ventnor (disconcerted)_. Helen-- _Mrs. Dale (agitated)_. Come, come--the rule is to unmask when the signal’s given! You want them for your memoirs. _Ventnor (with a forced laugh)_. What makes you think so? _Mrs. Dale (triumphantly)_. Because _I_ want them for mine! _Ventnor (in a changed tone)_. Ah--. _(He moves away from her and leans against the mantelpiece. She remains seated, with her eyes fixed on him.)_ _Mrs. Dale_. I wonder I didn’t see it sooner. Your reasons were lame enough. _Ventnor (ironically)_. Yours were masterly. You’re the more accomplished actor of the two. I was completely deceived. _Mrs. Dale_. Oh, I’m a novelist. I can keep up that sort of thing for five hundred pages! _Ventnor_. I congratulate you. _(A pause.)_ _Mrs. Dale (moving to her seat behind the tea-table)_. I’ve never offered you any tea. _(She bends over the kettle.)_ Why don’t you take your letters? _Ventnor_. Because you’ve been clever enough to make it impossible for me. _(He picks up the key and hands it to her. Then abruptly)_--Was it all acting--just now? _Mrs. Dale_. By what right do you ask? _Ventnor_. By right of renouncing my claim to my letters. Keep them--and tell me. _Mrs. Dale_. I give you back your claim--and I refuse to tell you. _Ventnor (sadly)_. Ah, Helen, if you deceived me, you deceived yourself also. _Mrs. Dale_. What does it matter, now that we’re both undeceived? I played a losing game, that’s all. _Ventnor_. Why losing--since all the letters are yours? _Mrs. Dale_. The letters? _(Slowly.)_ I’d forgotten the letters-- _Ventnor (exultant)_. Ah, I knew you’d end by telling me the truth! _Mrs. Dale_. The truth? Where _is_ the truth? _(Half to herself.)_ I thought I was lying when I began--but the lies turned into truth as I uttered them! _(She looks at Ventnor.)_ I _did_ want your letters for my memoirs--I _did_ think I’d kept them for that purpose--and I wanted to get mine back for the same reason--but now _(she puts out her hand and picks up some of her letters, which are lying scattered on the table near her)_--how fresh they seem, and how they take me back to the time when we lived instead of writing about life! _Ventnor (smiling)_. The time when we didn’t prepare our impromptu effects beforehand and copyright our remarks about the weather! _Mrs. Dale_. Or keep our epigrams in cold storage and our adjectives under lock and key!