Her new life went on without comment or interference from her husband, and she saw that he had accepted their altered relation, and intended merely to keep up an external semblance of harmony.  To that semblance she knew he attached intense importance:  it was an article of his complicated social creed that a man of his class should appear to live on good terms with his wife.  For different reasons it was scarcely less important to Undine:  she had no wish to affront again the social reprobation that had so nearly wrecked her.  But she could not keep up the life she was leading without more money, a great deal more money; and the thought of contracting her expenditure was no longer tolerable.

One afternoon, several weeks later, she came in to find a tradesman’s representative waiting with a bill.  There was a noisy scene in the anteroom before the man threateningly withdrew—­a scene witnessed by the servants, and overheard by her mother-in-law, whom she found seated in the drawing-room when she entered.  The old Marquise’s visits to her daughter-in-law were made at long intervals but with ritual regularity; she called every other Friday at five, and Undine had forgotten that she was due that day.  This did not make for greater cordiality between them, and the altercation in the anteroom had been too loud for concealment.  The Marquise was on her feet when her daughter-in-law came in, and instantly said with lowered eyes:  “It would perhaps be best for me to go.”

“Oh, I don’t care.  You’re welcome to tell Raymond you’ve heard me insulted because I’m too poor to pay my bills—­he knows it well enough already!” The words broke from Undine unguardedly, but once spoken they nourished her defiance.

“I’m sure my son has frequently recommended greater prudence—­” the Marquise murmured.

“Yes!  It’s a pity he didn’t recommend it to your other son instead!  All the money I was entitled to has gone to pay Hubert’s debts.”

“Raymond has told me that there are certain things you fail to understand—­I have no wish whatever to discuss them.”  The Marquise had gone toward the door; with her hand on it she paused to add:  “I shall say nothing whatever of what has happened.”

Her icy magnanimity added the last touch to Undine’s wrath.  They knew her extremity, one and all, and it did not move them.  At most, they would join in concealing it like a blot on their honour.  And the menace grew and mounted, and not a hand was stretched to help her....

Hardly a half-hour earlier Moffatt, with whom she had been visiting a “private view,” had sent her home in his motor with the excuse that he must hurry back to the Nouveau Luxe to meet his stenographer and sign a batch of letters for the New York mail.  It was therefore probable that he was still at home—­that she should find him if she hastened there at once.  An overwhelming desire to cry out her wrath and wretchedness brought her to her feet and sent her down to hail a passing cab.  As it whirled her through the bright streets powdered with amber sunlight her brain throbbed with confused intentions.  She did not think of Moffatt as a power she could use, but simply as some one who knew her and understood her grievance.  It was essential to her at that moment to be told that she was right and that every one opposed to her was wrong.