s as if they had been an accusation, an
accusation for which he was prepared and which there was but one way to
face. "I have indeed my instinct. It came to me, while I worried it
out, last night. It came to me as an effect of the hour." He held up
his letter and seemed now to insist more than to confess. "This thing
had been timed."

"For Christmas Eve?"

"For Christmas Eve."

Kate had suddenly a strange smile. "The season of gifts!" After which,
as he said nothing, she went on: "And had been written, you mean, while
she could write, and kept to _be_ so timed?"

Only meeting her eyes while he thought, he again didn't reply. "What do
_you_ mean by the proof?"

"Why of the beauty with which you've been loved. But I won't," she
said, "break your seal."

"You positively decline?"

"Positively. Never." To which she added oddly: "I know without."

He had another pause. "And what is it you know?"

"That she announces to you she has made you rich."

His pause this time was longer. "Left me her fortune?"

"Not all of it, no doubt, for it's immense. But money to a large
amount. I don't care," Kate went on, "to know how much." And her
strange smile recurred. "I trust her."

"Did she tell you?" Densher asked.

"Never!" Kate visibly flushed at the thought. "That wouldn't, on my
part, have been playing fair with her. And I did," she added, "play
fair."

Densher, who had believed her--he couldn't help it--continued, holding
his letter, to face her. He was much quieter now, as if his torment had
somehow passed. "You played fair with me, Kate; and that's why--since
we talk of proofs--I want to give _you_ one. I've wanted to let you
see--and in preference even to myself--something I feel as sacred."

She frowned a little. "I don't understand."

"I've asked myself for a tribute, for a sacrifice by which I can
peculiarly recognise--"

"Peculiarly recognise what?" she demanded as he dropped.

"The admirable nature of your own sacrifice. You were capable in Venice
of an act of splendid generosity."

"And the privilege you offer me with that document is my reward?"

He made a movement. "It's all I can do as a symbol of my attitude."

She looked at him long. "Your attitude, my dear, is that you're afraid
of yourself. You've had to take yourself in hand. You've had to do
yourself violence."

"So it is then you meet me?"

She bent her eyes hard a moment to the letter, from which her hand
still stayed itself. "You