Unstable love poems for stalkers. _Love letters. A new sort of thing—a lover's quarrel. My tongue makes no bones about love letters. A love letter I write will do nothing but make your mouth water. I'm a glutton for the written word. I adore the alphabet._ "The love letter was not in his writing," said Mrs. Trinder. "It was written in block capitals, and if you ask me, we all know who the author is." She stared at the empty seat in her office and sighed. "He's been reading at night again, I think." "But surely he doesn't need the money that bad," said Dora, blushing, because Mrs. Trinder had caught her out. She had heard the girls laughing with him at his jokes in the staff room. All his jokes were dirty ones about sex. She was very fond of Mr. Trinder, who had been a great friend to her when her children were small. "It is not a bad living," she defended herself, "he will be a manager soon enough." "You can't afford to work for a man like that," said Mrs. Trinder, "a man who has neither money nor morals. Mr. Trinder made a mistake to employ him, if he can't learn. Even if he does have a fine mind, his brain will get spoiled if he spends it the way he does. He can't be much of a gardener if he writes love letters." "He was the best gardener I ever had, Mrs. Trinder," Dora cried, feeling herself grow warm and indignant. "His work is like no one else's. He's such a clever gardener, his roses are famous. He has a way with them. I just cannot believe he would write anything disrespectful to his employer or anyone." "You must not argue with me, you know that. You are too soft, Mrs. Rokeby. The fact is, he didn't write the letter, you did." Mrs. Trinder thought that she ought to warn Dora. "I am afraid I heard the gossip," she said, "that is all." "Please do not tell my husband, I beg of you. You can't talk to him. I shall have to go and confess, I suppose. He will hit the roof. Do you know why I do not tell him?" "I know," said Mrs. Trinder. "Because you don't like to say that you know anything about my private life, but we both know that it is true." Mrs. Trinder sighed. She was relieved by Dora's confession. There was no reason, therefore, to tell her husband. Mrs. Trinder would not know what to tell him. She simply did not want to have him thinking of Dora. "When was it written?" Mrs. Trinder asked, staring at the seat and picturing Mr. Trinder and the strange girl. "A few weeks ago." "Was it addressed?" "To the school, it said. The girl's mother was there when I gave it to him. She was very angry. She said that I must not be working for a man with 'that sort of influence.' And she made sure he understood it." "How is that?" Mrs. Trinder was appalled. Mrs. Trinder had taken the letter from Dora's hand and examined it. Now she sat back on her chair and smiled to herself. "Oh, I've known the girl for quite a time," Dora cried. "She's a real child, and I cannot help it, but she's as sweet as a strawberry cake. She had quite a crush on Mr. Trinder once. She's my age—twenty-three—she's got lovely brown eyes. Oh, I just don't know what she wants of me." "I am sure you know everything," said Mrs. Trinder. "I know it was wrong of him, and that is why I am glad you have confessed to it. I have known him ever since he started the nursery. He was an orphan when he came here. I must say, I should have been more careful, knowing all that." "I shall write and tell him I cannot have the job. If he had behaved with one of the men, it would not have been so bad. He has never had any discipline in him. The things he says to me!" "Have you talked to the young lady?" Mrs. Trinder was enjoying herself. She had never spoken with such relish. She knew that she would have some real fun with Dora. "No, she is sick, but she writes letters to him when she's feeling better." "What a shame," said Mrs. Trinder. Dora was glad that she had not done as she had intended. "He told me that he had written to her, but of course, I did not believe him. And he lied about reading at night. I had to tell him the truth." "You know why," said Mrs. Trinder. "I didn't know if you knew." "Why, is he in love with the child, do you think?" "I do not know. He says that she is beautiful." "She's quite a pretty girl, that's all," said Mrs. Trinder. "I can't be certain if he really loves her or not, but if he did, he would not write a love letter and give it to you to pass on to him. He would have to do it himself and put a seal on it." Dora said that he had. "The girl has a secret lover," said Mrs. Trinder. "If I were you, I'd be very careful." Dora told her that he was not like that. "I am very suspicious," Mrs. Trinder said. "I have my suspicions about you." Dora felt herself turn cold. She must have been thoughtless to have told her employer her suspicions about her husband. She had a feeling that her whole life was exposed. She put down her dusting rag and looked down at the floor. Mrs. Trinder said that she was an intelligent girl and that she could rise in the business world if she were good enough. There were no mysteries about her at all. There was nothing for Dora to feel guilty about. The only thing was that Mr. Trinder knew about the letter. There was an awful feeling of exposure on Dora's heart, and a sense of regret. "I was a child myself once," said Mrs. Trinder. "They took me off the streets when I was no more than seventeen. I was in the workhouse and they sent me to the school to make me sensible. But I am not stupid. Look at me, for instance. I am a gardener. Look at me." Dora looked down at her shoes. She must have been wrong to tell her employer about her suspicions. "I feel as though he will tell everyone about me," she said. "What does it matter to him, or anyone? As long as you give him his letter when it comes in the morning. He can burn the one you gave him." Dora looked up and saw the face of the school inspector. She stared at him, with a feeling of horror. She turned around and Mrs. Trinder smiled at the inspector and invited him to sit down. He was not an object for her to take notice of. "My daughter is not here," she said, making an excuse for the absence of the student who should be cleaning the room. She would like to have spoken to the inspector about him as well, but she could not find it in her heart to tell him what Mrs. Trinder had just said. And she had a new respect for her employer. She went on cleaning and listening and trying to gather together her thoughts. Mrs. Trinder began a series of questions about Mrs. Rokeby's gardening, which took her some time to answer. But Dora was relieved. Mrs. Trinder's voice carried across the hall and a moment later Mrs. Rokeby came to the office and shut the door. She looked angry, but what she said to Dora was inaudible. Dora felt certain that she would be sacked. Mrs. Rokeby had never written a love letter in her life. The idea was repugnant to her. To think that her girl should have invented a child. Even in a school for young ladies a girl like that would cause great offence. It was an ill thought to write about the master to a girl of her age. Dora ought to be grateful to the girl. She should tell Dora that it was her duty to go to the police and get it written down in black and white. Dora should have the woman beaten up in the street and see what that would teach her. A husband did not have to be beaten up before he made a scene in public. "I should have to pay for it. Nobody would have any respect for me," she cried out. "It was very naughty of him to do that." "He has been telling me that he is going to be fired," Mrs. Trinder said. "Of course I will give him the letter, and