“I think that’s for her to decide.”
“H’m—have you considered the
consequences if she decides for divorce?”
“You mean the threat in her husband’s
letter? What weight would that carry?
It’s no more than the vague charge of an angry
blackguard.”
“Yes; but it might make some unpleasant talk
if he really defends the suit.”
“Unpleasant—!” said Archer explosively.
Mr. Letterblair looked at him from under enquiring
eyebrows, and the young man, aware of the uselessness
of trying to explain what was in his mind, bowed acquiescently
while his senior continued: “Divorce is
always unpleasant.”
“You agree with me?” Mr. Letterblair resumed,
after a waiting silence.
“Naturally,” said Archer.
“Well, then, I may count on you; the Mingotts
may count on you; to use your influence against the
idea?”
Archer hesitated. “I can’t pledge
myself till I’ve seen the Countess Olenska,”
he said at length.
“Mr. Archer, I don’t understand you.
Do you want to marry into a family with a scandalous
divorce-suit hanging over it?”
“I don’t think that has anything to do
with the case.”
Mr. Letterblair put down his glass of port and fixed
on his young partner a cautious and apprehensive gaze.
Archer understood that he ran the risk of having his
mandate withdrawn, and for some obscure reason he
disliked the prospect. Now that the job had been
thrust on him he did not propose to relinquish it;
and, to guard against the possibility, he saw that
he must reassure the unimaginative old man who was
the legal conscience of the Mingotts.
“You may be sure, sir, that I shan’t commit
myself till I’ve reported to you; what I meant
was that I’d rather not give an opinion till
I’ve heard what Madame Olenska has to say.”
Mr. Letterblair nodded approvingly at an excess of
caution worthy of the best New York tradition, and
the young man, glancing at his watch, pleaded an engagement
and took leave.
Old-fashioned New York dined at seven, and the habit
of after-dinner calls, though derided in Archer’s
set, still generally prevailed. As the young
man strolled up Fifth Avenue from Waverley Place,
the long thoroughfare was deserted but for a group
of carriages standing before the Reggie Chiverses’
(where there was a dinner for the Duke), and the occasional
figure of an elderly gentleman in heavy overcoat and
muffler ascending a brownstone doorstep and disappearing
into a gas-lit hall. Thus, as Archer crossed
Washington Square, he remarked that old Mr. du Lac
was calling on his cousins the Dagonets, and turning
down the corner of West Tenth Street he saw Mr. Skipworth,
of his own firm, obviously bound on a visit to the
Miss Lannings. A little farther up Fifth Avenue,
Beaufort appeared on his doorstep, darkly projected
against a blaze of light, descended to his private
