Very calmly, Mrs. Pendomer opened a window, letting in a flood of fresh air and sunshine; very calmly, she drew a chair—­a substantial arm-chair—­to the bedside, and, very calmly, she began: 

“My dear, Rudolph has told me of this ridiculous affair, and—­oh, you equally ridiculous girl!”

She removed, with deft fingers, a damp and clinging bandage from about Patricia’s head, and patted the back of Patricia’s hand, placidly.  Patricia was by this time sitting erect in bed, and her coppery hair was thick about her face, which was colorless; and, altogether, she was very rigid and very indignant and very pretty, and very, very young.

“How dare he tell you—­or anybody else!” she cried.

“We are such old friends, remember,” Mrs. Pendomer pleaded, and rearranged the pillows, soothingly, about her hostess; “and I want to talk to you quietly and sensibly.”

Patricia sank back among the pillows, and inhaled the fresh air, which, in spite of herself, she found agreeable.  “I—­somehow, I don’t feel very sensible,” she murmured, half sulky and half shame-faced.

Mrs. Pendomer hesitated for a moment, and then plunged into the heart of things.  “You are a woman, dear,” she said, gently, “though heaven knows it must have been only yesterday you were playing about the nursery—­and one of the facts we women must face, eventually, is that man is a polygamous animal.  It is unfortunate, perhaps, but it is true.  Civilization may veneer the fact, but nothing will ever override it, not even in these new horseless carriages.  A man may give his wife the best that is in him—­his love, his trust, his life’s work—­but it is only the best there is left.  We give our hearts; men dole out theirs, as people feed bread to birds, with a crumb for everyone.  His wife has the remnant.  And the best we women can do is to remember we are credibly informed that half a loaf is preferable to no bread at all.”

Her face sobered, and she added, pensively:  “We might contrive a better universe, we sister women, but this is not permitted us.  So we must take it as it is.”

Patricia stirred, as talking died away.  “I don’t believe it,” said she; and she added, with emphasis:  “And, anyhow, I hate that nasty trollop!”

“Ah, but you do believe it.”  Mrs. Pendomer’s voice was insistent.  “You knew it years before you went into long frocks.  That knowledge is, I suppose, a legacy from our mothers.”

Patricia frowned, petulantly, and then burst into choking sobs.  “Oh!” she cried, “it’s damnable!  Some other woman has had what I can never have.  And I wanted it so!—­that first love that means everything—­the love he gave her when I was only a messy little girl, with pig-tails and too many hands and feet!  Oh, that—­that hell-cat!  She’s had everything!”

There was an interval, during which Mrs. Pendomer smiled crookedly, and Patricia continued to sob, although at lengthening intervals.  Then, Mrs. Pendomer lifted the packet of letters lying on the bed, and cleared her throat.