dead and SHE'S dead, somebody must have given the
letters to the publishers."

"A little bird, probably," said Dresham, smiling indulgently on her
deduction.

"A little bird of prey then--a vulture, I should say--" another man
interpolated.

"Oh, I'm not with you there," said Dresham, easily. "Those letters
belonged to the public."

"How can any letters belong to the public that weren't written to the
public?" Mrs. Touchett interposed.

"Well, these were, in a sense. A personality as big as Margaret Aubyn's
belongs to the world. Such a mind is part of the general fund of
thought. It's the penalty of greatness--one becomes a monument
historique. Posterity pays the cost of keeping one up, but on condition
that one is always open to the public."

"I don't see that that exonerates the man who gives up the keys of the
sanctuary, as it were."

"Who WAS he?" another voice inquired.

"Who was he? Oh, nobody, I fancy--the letter-box, the slit in the wall
through which the letters passed to posterity...."

"But she never meant them for posterity!"

"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