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