She slipped to a place on the arm of Gaynor’s chair, her hand, whose well-kept beauty caught and held King’s eyes for a moment, toying with her husband’s greying hair.

“She loves old Ben,” thought King.  “That’s right.”

Mrs. Ben Gaynor was what is known as a born hostess very charming.  Hostess to her husband, of whom she saw somewhat less each year than of a number of other friends.  She had always the exactly proper meed of intimacy to offer each guest in accordance with the position he had come to occupy, or which she meant him to occupy, in her household.  Akin to her in instinct were those distinguished ladies of the colourful past of whom romantic history has it that in the salons of their doting lords and masters they gave direction, together with impetus or retardation, to muddy political currents.  Clever women.

Not that cleverness necessarily connotes heartlessness.  She adored Ben; you could see that in her quick dark eyes, which were always animated with expression.  If she was not more at his side, the matter was simply explained; she adored their daughter Gloria no less, and probably somewhat more, and Gloria needed her.  Surely Gaynor’s needs, those of a grown man, were less than those of a young girl whose budding youth must be perfected in flower.  And if Mrs. Ben was indefatigable in keeping herself young while Ben quietly accepted the gathering years, it was with no thought of coquetting with other men, but only that she might remain an older sister to her daughter, maintain the closer contact, and see that Gloria made the most of life.  Any small misstep which she herself had made in life her daughter must be saved from making; all of her unsatisfied yearnings must be fulfilled for Gloria.  She constituted herself cup-bearer, wine-taster and handmaiden for their daughter.  If it were necessary to engrave another fine line in old Ben’s forehead in order to add a softer tint to Gloria’s rose petals, she was sincerely sorry for Ben, but the desirable rose tints were selected with none the less steady hand.

Ben Gaynor’s eyes followed his wife pridefully when, at the end of fifteen pleasant, sunny minutes, she left them, and then went swiftly to his friend’s face, seeking approbation.  And he found it.  King had risen as she went out, holding himself with a hint of stiffness, as was his unconscious way when infrequently in the presence of women; now he turned to Ben with an odd smile.

“Pretty tardy date to congratulate you, old man,” he said with a laugh.  “Don’t believe I ever remembered it before, did I?”

Ben glowed and rubbed his long hands together in rich contentment.

“She’s a wonder, Mark,” he said heartily.

Mark nodded an emphatic approval.  Words, which Ben perhaps looked for, he did not add.  Everything had been said in the one word “congratulate.”