Partly as a result of these exertions she had a “nervous breakdown” toward the middle of the winter, and her physician having ordered massage and a daily drive it became necessary to secure Mrs. Heeny’s attendance and to engage a motor by the month.  Other unforeseen expenses—­the bills, that, at such times, seem to run up without visible impulsion—­were added to by a severe illness of little Paul’s:  a long costly illness, with three nurses and frequent consultations.  During these days Ralph’s anxiety drove him to what seemed to Undine foolish excesses of expenditure and when the boy began to get better the doctors advised country air.  Ralph at once hired a small house at Tuxedo and Undine of course accompanied her son to the country; but she spent only the Sundays with him, running up to town during the week to be with her husband, as she explained.  This necessitated the keeping up of two households, and even for so short a time the strain on Ralph’s purse was severe.  So it came about that the bill for the fancy-dress was still unpaid, and Undine left to wonder distractedly what had become of Van Degen’s money.  That Van Degen seemed also to wonder was becoming unpleasantly apparent:  his cheque had evidently not brought in the return he expected, and he put his grievance to her frankly one day when he motored down to lunch at Tuxedo.

They were sitting, after luncheon, in the low-ceilinged drawing-room to which Undine had adapted her usual background of cushions, bric-a-brac and flowers—­since one must make one’s setting “home-like,” however little one’s habits happened to correspond with that particular effect.  Undine, conscious of the intimate charm of her mise-en-scene, and of the recovered freshness and bloom which put her in harmony with it, had never been more sure of her power to keep her friend in the desired state of adoring submission.  But Peter, as he grew more adoring, became less submissive; and there came a moment when she needed all her wits to save the situation.  It was easy enough to rebuff him, the easier as his physical proximity always roused in her a vague instinct of resistance; but it was hard so to temper the rebuff with promise that the game of suspense should still delude him.  He put it to her at last, standing squarely before her, his batrachian sallowness unpleasantly flushed, and primitive man looking out of the eyes from which a frock-coated gentleman usually pined at her.

“Look here—­the installment plan’s all right; but ain’t you a bit behind even on that?” (She had brusquely eluded a nearer approach.) “Anyhow, I think I’d rather let the interest accumulate for a while.  This is good-bye till I get back from Europe.”

The announcement took her by surprise.  “Europe?  Why, when are you sailing?”

“On the first of April:  good day for a fool to acknowledge his folly.  I’m beaten, and I’m running away.”