As soon as she had eaten, Hester began her task, doing her best to imitate Drusilla's flowery, erratic hand.

My dearest love, I am still on fire from the joy of our last meeting. Of course I do understand the necessity for secrecy, at least for the time being, but the tenderness of your eyes was enough to thrill me to my very heart . . .

This was quite fun to write in such an unbridled strain. She would never in the world write like this if she were putting her own name to it, no matter what she felt. She continued.

I long for the time when we may be alone together, so that this pretense may no longer be, when you can take me in your arms and we can give ourselves to each other with the passion which I know you feel, as I do, tearing me apart. I ache for you. My dreams are filled with the sight of you and the sound of your voice, the touch of your skin against mine, the taste of your mouth . . .

Oh, dear! Had she gone too far?

But the aim of this was to be as excruciatingly embarrassing as possible.

The man who received this must regard Drusilla Wyndham with an abhorrence verging on terror.

She proceeded.

I know all the things you dare not say. I do not misunderstand your occasional coldness towards me when we chance to meet in public. I burn inside, my heart melts to be able to tell the world that we are lovers, al- beit yet to dare the final act, but I shall wait, knowing it will not be forever, and that soon, soon my darling, you will cut the ties that bind you to your wife now, and we shall be free to be together for ever.

Your one true love,

Drusilla

There now! If that did not make the man squirm, then he was a rake and a cad and possessed of no decency at all!

Naturally she had chosen only married men, or those about to be.

She reread what she had written. Perhaps it was a bit extreme? What Drusilla had done was appalling, but such a letter might damage her irreparably, several almost certainly would, which would make Hester morally no better than Drusilla herself. And she realized with a wave of misery that even Monk was not sure that he had not somehow caused her hatred.

She tore up the letter and put the little pieces into the wastebasket, and began again.

This one was much more moderate, inviting misinterpretation, but phrased in such a manner that it could, at a stretch of the imagination, and with a great deal of charity, be explained reasonably innocently.