"Look well at that letter. You are wrong. It is not a forgery. I did write it." He did not answer her, but stayed staring at the letter like a boy detected in a theft. She repeated: "The woman was quite right. I did write that letter." Brandon said, staring at her, "Don't laugh at me. This is too serious." "I'm not laughing. I wrote it. I sent it down by Gladys. If you recall the day to her she'll remember." She watched his face. It had turned suddenly grey, as though some one had slipped a grey mask over the original features. She thought, "Now perhaps he'll kill me. I'm not sorry." He whispered, leaning quite close to her as though he were afraid she would not hear. "You wrote that letter to Morris?" "I did." Then suddenly springing up, half out of bed, she cried, "You're not to touch him. Do you hear? You're not to touch him! It's not his fault. He's had nothing to do with this. He's only my friend. I love him, but he doesn't love me. Do you hear? He's had nothing to do with this!" "You love him!" whispered Brandon. "I've loved him since the first moment I saw him. I've wanted some one to love for years--years and years and years. You didn't love me, so then I hoped Falk would, and Falk didn't, so then I found the first person--any one who would be kind to me. And he was kind--he _is_ kind--the kindest man in the world. And he saw that I was lonely, so he let me talk to him and go to him--but none of this is his doing. He's only been kind. He--" "Your letter says 'Dearest'," said Brandon. "If you wrote that letter it says 'Dearest'." "That was my foolishness. It was wrong of me. He told me that I mustn't say anything affectionate. He's good and I'm bad. And I'm bad because you've made me." Brandon took the letter and tore it into little pieces; they scattered upon the counterpane. "You've been unfaithful to me?" he said, bending over her. She did not shrink back, although that strange, unknown, grey face was very close to her. "Yes. At first he wouldn't. He refused anything. But I would.... I wanted to be. I hate you. I've hated you for years." "Why?" His hand closed on her shoulder. "Because of your conceit and pride. Because you've never thought of me. Because I've always been a piece of furniture to you--less than that. Because you've been so pleased with yourself and well-satisfied and stupid. Yes. Yes. Most because you're so stupid. So stupid. Never seeing anything, never knowing anything and always--so satisfied. And when the town was pleased with you and said you were so fine I've laughed, knowing what you were, and I thought to myself, 'There'll come a time when they'll find him out'--and now they have. They know what you are at last. And I'm glad! I'm glad! I'm glad!" She stopped, her breast rising and falling beneath her nightdress, her voice shrill, almost a scream.