“A woman shouldn’t write such letters if she doesn’t mean them to be published....”
“She shouldn’t write them to such a man!” Mrs. Touchett scornfully corrected.
“I never keep letters,” said Mrs. Armiger, under the obvious impression that she was contributing a valuable point to the discussion.
There was a general laugh, and Flamel, who had not spoken, said, lazily, “You women are too incurably subjective. I venture to say that most men would see in those letters merely their immense literary value, their significance as documents. The personal side doesn’t count where there’s so much else.”
“Oh, we all know you haven’t any principles,” Mrs. Armiger declared; and Alexa Glennard, lifting an indolent smile, said: “I shall never write you a love-letter, Mr. Flamel.”
Glennard moved away impatiently. Such talk was as tedious as the buzzing of gnats. He wondered why his wife had wanted to drag him on such a senseless expedition.... He hated Flamel’s crowd—and what business had Flamel himself to interfere in that way, standing up for the publication of the letters as though Glennard needed his defence?...
Glennard turned his head and saw that Flamel had drawn a seat to Alexa’s elbow and was speaking to her in a low tone. The other groups had scattered, straying in twos along the deck. It came over Glennard that he should never again be able to see Flamel speaking to his wife without the sense of sick mistrust that now loosened his joints....
Alexa, the next morning, over their early breakfast, surprised her husband by an unexpected request.
“Will you bring me those letters from town?” she asked.
“What letters?” he said, putting down his cup. He felt himself as helplessly vulnerable as a man who is lunged at in the dark.