"I've come to hear about it all," he said, in his resonant voice--a voice
which matched his appearance. "Do you know"--and here his accent was
grave, almost reproachful--"that in all your letters to me--I looked them
over before I left Paris--there is no allusion, not one, to this Monsieur
Delarey."
"Why should there be?" she answered.
She sat down, but Artois continued to stand.
"We seldom wrote of persons, I think. We wrote of events, ideas, of work,
of conditions of life; of man, woman, child--yes--but not often of
special men, women, children. I am almost sure--in fact, quite sure, for
I've just been reading them--that in your letters to me there is very
little discussion of our mutual friends, less of friends who weren't
common to us both."
As she spoke she stretched out a long, thin arm, and pulled open the
drawer into which she had put the bundle tied with twine.
"They're all in here."
"You don't lock that drawer?"
"Never."
He looked at her with a sort of severity.
"I lock the door of the room, or, rather, it locks itself. You haven't
noticed it?"
"No."
"It's the same as the outer door of a flat. I have a latch-key to it."
He said nothing, but smiled. All the sudden grimness had gone out of his
face.
Hermione withdrew her hand from the drawer holding the letters.
"Here they are!"
"My complaints, my egoism, my ambitions, my views--Mon Dieu! Hermione,
what a good friend you've been!"
"And some people say you're not modest!"
"I--modest! What is modesty? I know my own value as compared with that of
others, and that knowledge to others must often seem conceit."
She began to untie the packet, but he stretched out his hand and stopped
her.
"No, I didn't come from Paris to read my letters, or even to hear you
read them! I came to hear about this Monsieur Delarey."
Selim stole in with tea and stole out silently, shutting the door this
time. As soon as he had gone, Artois drew a case from his pocket, took
out of it a pipe, filled it, and lit it. Meanwhile, Hermione poured out
tea, and, putting three lumps of sugar into one of the cups, handed it to
Artois.
"I haven't come to protest. You know we both worship individual freedom.
How often in those letters haven't we written it--our respect of the
right of the individual to act for him or herself, without the
interference of outsiders? No, I've come to hear about it all, to hear
how you managed to get into the pleasant state of mania."