"Anything that has happened," he said, "has not been communicated by me to anybody. It did not seem to me that—there was anything that ought to be."
Lady Dashwood waited and finding her lips would stiffen and her voice sounded hollow, measured her words.
"Will you read Belinda's letter, and then you will see what I mean?" she said, and she rose and held the paper out to him.
His features had grown tense and severe. He half rose, and reached out over the table for the letter, and took it without a word. Then he put on his eye-glasses and read it through very slowly.
Lady Dashwood sat, staring at her own hands that lay in her lap. She was not thinking, she was waiting for him to speak.
He read the letter through, and sat with it in his hand, silent for a minute. For years he had been accustomed to looking over the compositions of men who had begun to think, and of men who never would begin to think. He was unable to read anything without reading it critically. But his criticism was criticism of ideas and the expression of ideas. He had no insight either by instinct or training for the detection of petty personal subterfuges, nor did he suspect crooked motives. But the discrepancy between this effusion of maternal emotion and Gwendolen's assertion that she had no home and that nobody cared was glaring.
The writer of the letter was a bouncing, selfish woman of poor intelligence. That fact, indeed, had become established in the Warden's mind. The letter was in hopelessly bad taste. It became pretty plain, therefore, that Gwendolen had spoken the truth, and the lie belonged to the mother.
Already, yes, already he was being drawn into an atmosphere of paltry humbug, of silly dishonesty, an atmosphere in which he could not breathe.
Couldn't breathe! The Warden roused himself. What did he mean by "being drawn"? He had carried out his life with decisive and serious intentions, and whoever shared that life with him would have to live in the atmosphere he had created around him. Surely he was strong enough not only to hold his own against the mother, but to mould a pliable girl into a form that he could respect!
"Somehow, I can't imagine how," said Lady Dashwood, breaking the silence, "I found a letter from Belinda to Gwendolen on my toilet table among other letters, and opened it and I began reading it—without knowing that it was not for me. Belinda's writing—all loops—did not make the distinction between Gwen and Lena so very striking. I read two sentences or so, and one phrase I can't forget; it was 'What are you doing about the Warden?' I turned the sheet and saw, 'Your affectionate mother, Belinda Scott.' I did not read any more. I gave the letter to Gwen, and I saw by her face that she had read the letter herself. 'What are you doing about the Warden?' Knowing Belinda, I draw conclusions from this sentence that do not match with the surprise she expresses in this letter you have just read. You understand what I mean?"