books; in one of the windows was a table, covered with papers and
adorned with a type-writer, by means of which Iris carried on her
correspondence. For a moment the unworthy thought crossed his mind
that he had been, perhaps, artfully lured on by a siren for his
destruction. Only for a moment, however, because she raised her face
and met his gaze again, with eyes so frank and innocent, that he could
not doubt them. Besides, there was the clear outline of her face, so
truthful and so honest. The young man was an artist, and therefore
believed in outline. Could any sane and intelligent creature doubt
those curves of cheek and chin?

"I have put together," she said, "all your letters for you. Here they
are. Will you, please, take them back? I must not keep them any
longer." He took them, and bowed. "I made this appointment, as you
desired, to tell you the truth, because I have deceived you too long:
and to beg you to forgive me; and to say that, of course, there is an
end to our correspondence."

"Thank you. It shall be as you desire. Exactly," he repeated, "as you
desire."

He ought to have gone at once. There was nothing more to say. Yet he
lingered, holding the letters in his hand.

"To write these letters," he said, "has been for a long time one of
my greatest pleasures, partly because I felt that I was writing to a
friend, and so wrote in full trust and confidence; partly because they
procured me a reply--in the shape of your letters. Must I take back
these letters of mine?"