The Rutherfords never shared their letters. It was her idea that they should not. He had been violently opposed to it at first. She couldn’t help laughing; he had so absolutely misunderstood her reason.
“Good God! my dear. You’re perfectly welcome to open any letters of mine that come to the house—or to read any letters of mine that may be lying about. I think I can promise you....”
“Oh no, no, darling, that’s not what I mean. I don’t suspect you.” And she put her hands on his cheeks and kissed him quickly. He looked like an offended boy. “But so many of Mother’s old friends write to me—confide in me—don’t you know?—tell me things they wouldn’t for the world tell a man. I feel it wouldn’t be fair to them. Don’t you see?”
He gave way at last. But “I’m old fashioned,” he said, and his smile was a little rueful. “I like to feel my wife reads my letters.”
“My precious dear! I’ve made you unhappy.” She felt so repentant; she didn’t know quite about what. “Of course I’d love to read....”
“No, no! That’s all right. It’s understood. We’ll keep the bond.” And they had kept it.
He slit open the grimy envelope. He began to read. “Damn!” he said and thrust out his under lip.
“Why, what is it? Something horrid?”
“No—annoying. I shall be late this evening. A man wants to meet me at the office at six o’clock.”