She had been expecting that letter for days. 'Oh! give it me,' she said impulsively. 'There it is; I wouldn't touch it. I knew you liked that man; but I didn't expect to find you corresponding with him. It is shameful; it isn't worthy of you. You might have left such things to May Gould.' 'Cecilia, you have no right to speak to me in that way; you are presuming too much on our friendship.' 'Oh, yes, yes; but before you met him I could not presume too much upon our friendship.' 'If you want to know why I wrote to Mr. Harding, I'll tell you.' 'It was you who wrote to him, then?' 'Yes, I wrote to him.' 'Oh, yes, yes, yes; I see it all now,' cried Cecilia, and she walked wildly to and fro, her eye tinged with a strange glare. 'Yes, I see it all. This room, that was once a girl's room, is now Harding's room. He is the atmosphere of the place. I was conscious of it when I entered, but now it is visible to me--that manuscript, that writing-table, that letter. Oh yes, it is Harding, all is Harding!' 'Cecilia, Cecilia, think, I beg of you, of what you are saying.' But when Alice approached and strove to raise her from the pillow upon which she had thrown herself, she started up and savagely confronted her. 'Don't touch me, don't touch me!' she cried. 'I cannot bear it. What are you to me, what am I to you? It is not with me you would care to be, but with _him_. It is not my kiss of friendship that would console you, but his kiss of passion that would charm you. . . . Go to him, and leave me to die.' 'Was this insanity?' And then, forgetful of the abuse that was being showered upon her, Alice said: 'Cecilia dear, listen; I'll forgive the language you have used toward me, for I know you do not know what you are saying. You must be ill . . . you cannot be in your right senses to-day, or you would not speak like that.' 'You would soothe me, but you little dream of the poison you are dropping on my wounds. You never understood, you are too far removed from me in thought and feeling ever to understand--no, your spirituality is only a delusion; you are no better at heart than May Gould. It is the same thing: one seeks a husband, another gratifies herself with a lover. It is the same thing--where's the difference? It is animal passion all the same. And that letter is full of it--it must be--I am sure it is.' 'You are very insulting, Cecilia. Where have you thrown my letter?' The letter had fallen beneath the table. Alice made a movement towards it, but, overcome by mad rage, Cecilia caught it up and threw it into the fire. Alice rescued her letter, and then, her face full of stern indignation, she said: 'I think, Cecilia, you had better leave my room, and before you come to see me again, I shall expect to receive a written apology for the outrageous way you have behaved.'