"I remember the little scratchy blot from the pen on
the envelope. There it is, just as I made it five years ago. But how
disgracefully soiled the envelope is! I suppose it has been tossed about
in your saddle-bag, or with your old clothes, and only kept to remind you
day by day that you had a wife you couldn't live with--kept as a warning
never to think of her except to say, 'I hate you, Mona, because you are
rich and heartless, and not bigger than a pinch of snuff.' That was the
kind way you used to speak of her even when you were first married to
her--contemptuously always in your heart, no matter what you said out
loud. And the end showed it--the end showed it; you deserted her."
He was so fascinated by the picture she made of passion and incensed
declamation that he did not attempt to open the letter, and he wondered
why there was such a difference between the effect of her temper on him
now and the effect of it those long years ago. He had no feeling of
uneasiness in her presence now, no sense of irritation. In spite of her
tirade, he had a feeling that it didn't matter, that she must bluster in
her tiny teacup if she wanted to do so.
"Open the letter at once," she insisted. "If you don't, I will.
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