and looked at it on either side.

'There are letters in it?' she said, without raising her eyes.

'Yes, I believe there are letters in it.'

'Important, I suppose?'

'I daresay; I suppose I had some reason for putting them there.'

He spoke with apparent indifference, and turned to light a cigarette.
Beatrice put back the case, and closed the drawer.

'Here is note-paper,' Wilfrid said, holding some to her.

She took it in silence, and seated herself. Wilfrid at tempted to pursue
the jest, but she could not reply. She sat as if about to 'write; her
eyes were drooped, and her mouth had set itself hard. Wilfrid affected
to turn over papers in search for something, still standing before the
table.

'You find it difficult to begin,' he said. 'Pray call him "dear sir."
Society depends upon that "dear."'

'A word easily used,' remarked Beatrice, in a low' voice, as if she were
thinking.

He cast a glance at her, then seated himself. He was at the side of the
table, she at the end. After a moment of silence, she leaned forward to
him.

'Wilfrid,' she said, trying to smile, 'what letters are those, dear?'

'Of what possible moment can that be to you, Beatrice?'

'It seems--I can't help thinking they are--letters which you value
particularly. Might I not know?'

He looked away to the window.

'Of course, if you tell me I am rude,' Beatrice continued, pressing her
pen's point upon the table, 'I have no answer.'

'Well, yes,' he replied at length, as if having taken a resolve, 'they
are letters of--that I have put apart for a special reason. And now,
shall we forget them?'

His tone was not altogether suave; about his nostrils there was a
suspicion of defiance. He forced himself to meet her gaze steadily; the
effort killed a smile.

'We will cease to speak of them,' Beatrice answered, implying a
distinction.

A minute later he saw' that she laid down her pen and rose. He looked up
inquiringly.

'I don't feel able to do anything this morning,' she said.

Wilfrid made no reply. She went to the chair on which her hat and mantle
lay.

'You are not going?' he asked, in a tone of surprise.

'I think so; I can't be of use to you,' she added, impulsively; 'I have
not your confidence.'

He let her throw the mantle over her shoulders.

'Beatrice, surely this is not the result of such a trifle? Look!' He
pulled open the drawer once more and threw the pocket-hook on to the
table. 'Suppose that had lain there