"Ah! Have you that letter? I should like to read it." She put forth
her hand with a little imperious gesture.

He fumbled in his blouse. Had his mind been less blunted he would have
thought twice before trusting the missive into her keeping. But he
gave it to her docilely. There beat but one thought in his brain: she
was here in Quebec.

She took down a candle from the mantel. She read aloud, and her tone
was flippant. "'Forgive! How could I have doubted so gallant a
gentleman!' What was it I doubted?" puckering her brow. "No matter."
She went on: "'You have asked me if I love you. Find me and put the
question. France is large. If you love me you will find me. You have
complained that I have never permitted you to kiss me.'" She paused,
glanced obliquely at the scrawl, and shrugged. "Can it be possible
that I wrote this--'I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times'?"
Calmly she folded the letter. "Well, Monsieur, and you searched
thoroughly, I have no doubt. This would be an incentive to the most
laggard gallant."

"I . . . I was in deep trouble." The words choked him. "I was about
to start . . ." He glanced about helplessly.

"And . . . ?" The scorn on her face deepened. He became conscious
that the candle and the letter were drawing dangerously close.

"Good God, Diane! how can I tell you? You would not understand! . . .
What are you doing?" springing toward her to stay her arm. But he was
too late. The flame was already eating into the heart of that precious
testament.