It's here, in writing." And he handed me another gem of epistolary literature.
"You have no compunctions ?" I asked again, after reading it.
"Not a blessed compunction to my name." "Then neither have I," I answered.
I felt they both deserved it.

Sissie was a minx, as Hilda rightly judged; while as for Nettlecraft--well, if a public school and an English university leave a man a cad, a cad he will be, and there is nothing more to be said about it.
I went straight off with the letters to Cecil Holsworthy.

He read them through, half incredulously at first; he was too honest-natured himself to believe in the possibility of such double-dealing--that one could have innocent eyes and golden hair and yet be a trickster.

He read them twice; then he compared them word for word with the simple affection and childlike tone of his own last letter received from the same lady.

Her versatility of style would have done honour to a practised literary craftsman.