I don't
mean to say that she was doing a wrong thing. She was certainly
doing right in trying to warn me that Florence was making eyes at
her husband. But, if she did the right thing, she was doing it in the
wrong way. Perhaps she should have reflected longer; she should
have spoken, if she wanted to speak, only after reflection. Or it
would have been better if she had acted--if, for instance, she had
so chaperoned Florence that private communication between her
and Edward became impossible. She should have gone
eavesdropping; she should have watched outside bedroom doors.
It is odious; but that is the way the job is done. She should have
taken Edward away the moment Maisie was dead. No, she acted
wrongly. . . . And yet, poor thing, is it for me to condemn her--and
what did it matter in the end? If it had not been Florence, it would
have been some other . . . Still, it might have been a better woman
than my wife. For Florence was vulgar; Florence was a common
flirt who would not, at the last, lacher prise; and Florence was an
unstoppable talker. You could not stop her; nothing would stop
her. Edward and Leonora were at least proud and reserved people.
Pride and reserve are not the only things in life; perhaps they are
not even the best things.
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