"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.

"Mrs. Aubyn's. The book they were all talking about yesterday."