He seemed disposed to allow her more liberty than before, and it was only now and then that he let drop a brief reminder of the conditions on which it was accorded.  She was to keep certain people at a distance, she was not to cheapen herself by being seen at vulgar restaurants and tea-rooms, she was to join with him in fulfilling certain family obligations (going to a good many dull dinners among the number); but in other respects she was free to fill her days as she pleased.

“Not that it leaves me much time,” she admitted to Madame de Trezac; “what with going to see his mother every day, and never missing one of his sisters’ jours, and showing myself at the Hotel de Dordogne whenever the Duchess gives a pay-up party to the stuffy people Lili Estradina won’t be bothered with, there are days when I never lay eyes on Paul, and barely have time to be waved and manicured; but, apart from that, Raymond’s really much nicer and less fussy than he was.”

Undine, as she grew older, had developed her mother’s craving for a confidante, and Madame de Trezac had succeeded in that capacity to Mabel Lipscomb and Bertha Shallum.

“Less fussy?” Madame de Trezac’s long nose lengthened thoughtfully.  “H’m—­are you sure that’s a good sign?”

Undine stared and laughed.  “Oh, my dear, you’re so quaint!  Why, nobody’s jealous any more.”

“No; that’s the worst of it.”  Madame de Trezac pondered.  “It’s a thousand pities you haven’t got a son.”

“Yes; I wish we had.”  Undine stood up, impatient to end the conversation.  Since she had learned that her continued childlessness was regarded by every one about her as not only unfortunate but somehow vaguely derogatory to her, she had genuinely begun to regret it; and any allusion to the subject disturbed her.

“Especially,” Madame de Trezac continued, “as Hubert’s wife—­”

“Oh, if that’s all they want, it’s a pity Raymond didn’t marry Hubert’s wife,” Undine flung back; and on the stairs she murmured to herself:  “Nettie has been talking to my mother-in-law.”

But this explanation did not quiet her, and that evening, as she and Raymond drove back together from a party, she felt a sudden impulse to speak.  Sitting close to him in the darkness of the carriage, it ought to have been easy for her to find the needed word; but the barrier of his indifference hung between them, and street after street slipped by, and the spangled blackness of the river unrolled itself beneath their wheels, before she leaned over to touch his hand.

“What is it, my dear?”

She had not yet found the word, and already his tone told her she was too late.  A year ago, if she had slipped her hand in his, she would not have had that answer.

“Your mother blames me for our not having a child.  Everybody thinks it’s my fault.”

He paused before answering, and she sat watching his shadowy profile against the passing lamps.