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Updated: June 22, 2025
Glennard at this point laid down his fork and glanced at her between the candle-shades. The alternative explanation of her indifference was not slow in presenting itself. Her head had the same listening droop as when he had caught sight of her the day before in Flamel's company; the attitude revived the vividness of his impression. It was simple enough, after all.
The hot air was choked with the scent of white azaleas, white lilies, white lilacs; all the flowers were white; they were like a prolongation, a mystical efflorescence, of the long rows of marble tombstones, and their perfume seemed to cover an odor of decay. The rich atmosphere made Glennard dizzy.
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.
Glennard found himself in the case of the seafarer who, closing his eyes at nightfall on a scene he thinks to put leagues behind him before day, wakes to a port-hole framing the same patch of shore. From the kind of exaltation to which his resolve had lifted him he dropped to an unreasoning apathy. His impulse of confession had acted as a drug to self-reproach.
"My dear fellow, what on earth does this mean?" Glennard recognized his check. "That I was remiss, simply. It ought to have gone to you before." Flamel's tone had been that of unaffected surprise, but at this his accent changed and he asked, quickly: "On what ground?" Glennard had moved away from the desk and stood leaning against the calf-backed volumes of the bookcase.
Glennard had never thought himself a hero; but he had been certain that he was incapable of baseness. We all like our wrong-doings to have a becoming cut, to be made to order, as it were; and Glennard found himself suddenly thrust into a garb of dishonor surely meant for a meaner figure. The immediate result of his first weeks of wretchedness was the resolve to go to town for the winter.
He lost all sense of what he was saying to his neighbors and once when he looked up his wife's glance struck him cold. She sat nearly opposite him, at Flamel's side, and it appeared to Glennard that they had built about themselves one of those airy barriers of talk behind which two people can say what they please. While the reading was discussed they were silent.
It was the kind of book that makes elderly ladies lower their voices and call each other "my dear" when they furtively discuss it; and Glennard exulted in the superior knowledge of the world that enabled him to take as a matter of course sentiments over which the university shook its head. Still more delightful was it to hear Mrs.
"Was she were they ?" He chafed at his own ignorance of the sentimental by-paths of literature. "If you want love-letters, perhaps some of the French eighteenth century correspondences might suit you better Mlle. Aisse or Madame de Sabran " But Glennard insisted. "I want something modern English or American. I want to look something up," he lamely concluded.
Glennard took up his hat and thrust himself into his overcoat. "I dare say I sha'n't do anything about it. And, Flamel you won't mention this to anyone?" "Lord, no. Well, I congratulate you. You've got a big thing." Flamel was smiling at him from the hearth. Glennard, on the threshold, forced a response to the smile, while he questioned with loitering indifference "Financially, eh?"
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