It was a morocco case, with an elastic band round it.  Beatrice stretched her hand towards it, but he arrested her movement.

‘No, no,’ he said, playfully, ‘we can’t have prying.  Here are the pens.’

‘But do let me look at the case, Wilfrid.’

He began to close the drawer.  Beatrice laid her hand on it.

‘My aunt gave it me, long ago,’ Wilfrid said, as if to dismiss the subject.  ‘Mind!  I shall trap your fingers.’

’I’m sure you won’t do that.  But I do want to see it.  The smell of morocco is so delicious.  Just one whiff of it.’

’Then you want to smell it, not to see it.  If you’re good, you shall before you go away.’

‘No, but now!—­Wilfrid!’

He was pretending to squeeze her fingers in the shutting of the drawer.  She would not undo her grasp.

‘Why mayn’t I, Wilfrid?’

She looked at him.  His expression was graver than became the incident; he was trying to smile, but Beatrice saw that his eyes and lips were agitated.

‘Why mayn’t I?’ she repeated.

‘Oh, if you insist,’ he exclaimed, moving back a step or two, ’of course you may.’

She took up the case, 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?’