The letters first; how lucky that they still used candle-light!  It would make the task much simpler—­the funeral pyre already lighted.  She moved one of the tall candelabra to the desk, sitting for a long time quite still, her chin cupped in her hands, staring down at the bits of paper.  She could smell the wall-flowers under the window as though they were in the room—­drenched in dew and moonlight, they were reckless of their fragrance.  All this peace and cleanliness and orderly beauty—­what a ghastly trick for God to have played—­to have taught her to adore them, and then to snatch them away!  All about her, warm with candle-light, lay the gracious loveliness of the little room with its dark waxed furniture, its bright glazed chintz, its narrow bed with the cool linen sheets smelling of lavender, and its straight, patterned curtains—­oh, that hateful, mustard-coloured den at home, with its golden-oak day-bed!

She wrung her hands suddenly in a little hunted gesture.  How could he have left her to that, he who had sworn that he would never leave her?  In every one of those letters beneath her linked fingers he had sworn it—­in every one perjured—­false half a hundred times.  Pick up any one of them at random—­

“Janie, you darling stick, is ‘dear Jerry’ the best that you can do?  You ought to learn French!  I took a perfectly ripping French kid out to dinner last night—­name’s Liane, from the Varietes—­and she was calling me ‘mon grand cheri’ before the salad, and ’mon p’tit amour’ before the green mint.  Maybe that’ll buck you up!  And I’d have you know that she’s so pretty that it’s ridiculous, with black velvet hair that she wears like a little Oriental turban, and eyes like golden pansies, and a mouth between a kiss and a prayer—­and a nice affable nature into the bargain.  But I’m a ghastly jackass—­I didn’t get any fun out of it at all—­because I really didn’t even see her.  Under the pink shaded candles to my blind eyes it seemed that there was seated the coolest, quietest, whitest little thing, with eyes that were as indifferent as my velvety Liane’s were kind, and mockery in her smile.  Oh, little masquerader!  If I could get my arms about you even for a minute—­if I could kiss so much as the tips of your lashes—­would you be cool and quiet and mocking then?  Janie, Janie, rosy-red as flowers on the terrace and sweeter—­sweeter—­they’re about you now—­they’ll be about you always!”

Burn it fast, candle—­faster, faster.  Here’s another for you.

“So the other fellow cured you of using pretty names, did he—­you don’t care much for dear and darling any more?  Bit hard on me, but fortunately for you, Janie Janet, I’m rather a dab at languages—­’specially when it comes to what the late lamented Boche referred to as ‘cosy names.’ Querida mi alma, douchka, Herzliebchen, carissima; and bien, bien-aimee, I’ll not run out of salutations for you this side of heaven—­no—­nor