wrong. I was in her confidence, she liked talking to me. I did her good."
"With drugs or dogma?" I asked.
"With sympathy. She had suffered terribly, more than any woman should be allowed to suffer. And she was ultra-sensitive, her nerves were all exposed, inflamed. You have sometimes that elusive, strange resemblance to her. But she had neither strength nor courage and as for hardness … she did not know the meaning of the word."
"You are wrong. Last night I heard her talk to Gabriel Stanton."
"Did you?" His eyes lightened. "Tell me. But he was not the man for her, never the man for her. Not sufficiently flexible. He took her too seriously."
"Can a man take a woman too seriously?"
"An emotional, nervous, delicate woman. Yes. You've been through all the letters?"
"No. There are a few more."
They were on the table, and I put my hand on them. I was sure that no one but I must see them.
"The first two or three times that Gabriel Stanton came down he stayed at 'The King's Arms.' She was always ill after he left, always. She made a brave effort, poor girl. Day after day I have come in and seen her sitting as you are, paper before her, and ink. I don't think anything ever came of it. She would play too, for hours."
