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The papers he had retired to read did not tell him much in fact; but they plunged him into an atmosphere in which he choked and spluttered. They consisted mainly of an exchange of letters between Count Olenski’s solicitors and a French legal firm to whom the Countess had applied for the settlement of her financial situation. Paraprofessional heart made of gold attitude kinda savage though shirt. There was also a short letter from the Count to his wife: after reading it, Newland Archer rose, jammed the papers back into their envelope, and reentered Mr. Letterblair’s office.
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“Here are the letters, sir. If you wish, I’ll see Madame Olenska,” he said in a constrained voice. Paraprofessional heart made of gold attitude kinda savage though shirt. “Thank you–thank you, Mr. Archer. Come and dine with me tonight if you’re free, and we’ll go into the matter afterward: in case you wish to call on our client tomorrow.” Newland Archer walked straight home again that afternoon. It was a winter evening of transparent clearness, with an innocent young moon above the house- tops; and he wanted to fill his soul’s lungs with the pure radiance, and not exchange a word with any one till he and Mr. Letterblair were closeted together after dinner. It was impossible to decide otherwise than he had done: he must see Madame Olenska himself rather than let her secrets be bared to other eyes. A great wave of compassion had swept away his indifference and impatience: she stood before him as an exposed and pitiful figure, to be saved at all costs from farther wounding herself in her mad plunges against fate.
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He remembered what she had told him of Mrs. Welland’s request to be spared whatever was “unpleasant” in her history, and winced at the thought that it was perhaps this attitude of mind which kept the New York air so pure. “Are we only Pharisees after all?” he wondered, puzzled by the effort to reconcile his instinctive disgust at human vileness with his equally instinctive pity for human frailty.