"MY DEAR MAXINE," [he began his letter, though he had never been
given the right to call me Maxine, and never had dared so to
call me before] "I must see you, and talk to you this evening,
alone. This for your own sake and that of another, even more
than mine, though you know very well what it is to me to be with
you. Perhaps you may be able to guess that this is important. I
am so sure that you _will_ guess, and that you will not only be
willing but anxious to see me to-night, if you never were
before, that I shall venture to be waiting for you at the stage
door when you come out.
"Yours, in whatever way you will,
"ALEXIS."
If anything could have given me pleasure at that moment, it would have
been to tear the letter in little pieces, with the writer looking on.
Then to throw those pieces in his hateful face, and say, "That's your
answer."
But he was not looking on, and even if he had been I could not have done
what I wished. He knew that I would have to consent to see him, that he
need have no fear I would profit by my knowledge of his intentions, to
order him sent away from the stage door.
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