“Wait!” she implored, checking his speech,--she had been watching him with what was plainly anxiety, “don't say anything yet. I have a letter here which she wrote me--at the time. I kept it. Let me read a part of it to you, that you may understand more fully the tragedy of it.” Mrs. Constable thrust her hand into her lap and drew forth a thickly covered sheet. “It was written just after she left him--it is an answer to my protest,” she explained, and began to read: “I know I promised to love Victor, mother, but how can one promise to do a thing over which one has no control? I loved him after he stopped loving me. He wasn't a bit suited to me--I see that now--he was attracted by the outside of me, and I never knew what he was like until I married him. His character seemed to change completely; he grew morose and quick-tempered and secretive, and nothing I did pleased him. We led a cat-and-dog life. I never let you know--and yet I see now we might have got along in any other relationship. We were very friendly when we parted, and I'm not a bit jealous because he cares for another woman who I can see is much better suited to him. “'I can't honestly regret leaving him, and I'm not conscious of having done anything wrong. I don't want to shock you, and I know how terribly you and father must feel, but I can see now, somehow, that I had to go through this experience, terrible as it was, to find myself. If it were thirty years ago, before people began to be liberal in such matters, I shudder to think what might have become of me. I should now be one of those terrible women between fifty and sixty who have tried one frivolity and excess after another--but I'm not coming to that! And my friends have really been awfully kind, and supported me--even Victor's family. Don't, don't think that I'm not respectable! I know how you look at such things.'” Mrs. Constable closed the letter abruptly. “I did look at such things in that way,” she added, “but I've changed. That letter helped to change me, and the fact that it was Gertrude who had been through this. If you only knew Gertrude, Mr. Hodder, you couldn't possibly think of her as anything but sweet and pure.” Although the extent of Hodder's acquaintance with Mrs. Warren had been but five minutes, the letter had surprisingly retouched to something like brilliancy her faded portrait, the glow in her cheeks, the iris blue in her eyes. He recalled the little shock he had experienced when told that she was divorced, for her appeal had lain in her very freshness, her frank and confiding manner. She was one of those women who seem to say, “Here I am, you can't but like me:” And he had responded--he remembered that--he had liked her. And now her letter, despite his resistance, had made its appeal, so genuinely human was it, so honest, although it expressed a philosophy he abhorred. Mrs. Constable was watching him mutely, striving to read in his grave eyes the effect of her pleadings.