She made no answer.

"It is hard, is it not, to lose a friend so slowly acquired, thus
suddenly and unexpectedly?"

"Yes," she said, "it is hard. I am very sorry. It was my fault."

"Perhaps I have said something, in my ignorance--something which ought
not to have been said or written--something careless--something which
has lowered me in your esteem--"

"Oh, no--no!" said Iris quickly. "You have never said anything that a
gentleman should not have said."

"And if you yourself found any pleasure in answering my letters--"

"Yes," said Iris with frankness, "it gave me great pleasure to read
and to answer your letters, as well as I could."

"I have not brought back your letters. I hope you will allow me to
keep them. And, if you will, why should we not continue our
correspondence as before?" But he did not ask the question
confidently.

"No," said Iris decidedly "it can never be continued as before. How
could it, when once we have met, and you have learned the truth?"

"Then," he continued, "if we cannot write to each other any more, can
we not talk?"