Presently she uttered a low cry and clasped her head with her hand, as if to shut out the sound of the words that tortured her.
It could not be true--it could not be true! Stafford had not written it.

It was some cruel jest, a very cruel jest, perpetrated by someone who hated them both, and who wantonly inflicted pain.

Yes; that was it! That could be the only explanation.

Someone had written in his name; it was a forgery; she would meet Stafford presently, and they would laugh at it together.

He would be very angry, would want to punish the person who had done it; but he and she would laugh together, and he would take her in his arms and kiss her in one of the many ways in which he had made a kiss an ecstasy of delight, and they would laugh together as he whispered that nothing should ever separate them.
She laughed now as she pictured the scene that would be enacted.