“The one difficult factor is Theresa,” said Madelene, pushing on with the prescription.  “She—­I judge from what I’ve heard—­she’s what’s commonly called a ‘poor excuse for a woman.’  We all know that type.  You may be sure her vanity would soon find ways of consoling her.  Ninety-nine times out of a hundred where one holds on after the other has let go the reason is vanity, wounded vanity—­where it isn’t the material consideration that explains why there are so many abandoned wives and so few abandoned husbands.  Theresa doesn’t really care for her husband; love that isn’t mutual isn’t love.  So she’d come up smiling for a second husband.”

“She’s certainly vain,” said Del.  “Losing him would all but kill her.”

“Not if it’s done tactfully,” replied Madelene.  “Ross’ll no doubt be glad to sacrifice his own vanity and so arrange matters that she’ll be able to say and feel that she got rid of him, not he of her.  Of course that means a large sacrifice of his vanity—­and of yours, too.  But neither of you will mind that.”

Adelaide looked uncomfortable; Madelene took advantage of her abstraction to smile at the confession hinted in that look.

“As for Dory—­”

At that name Del colored and hung her head.

“As for Dory,” repeated Madelene, not losing the chance to emphasize the effect, “he’s no doubt fond of you.  But no matter what he—­or you—­may imagine, his fondness cannot be deeper than that of a man for a woman between whom and him there isn’t the perfect love that makes one of two.”

“I don’t understand his caring for me,” cried Del.  “I can’t believe he does.”  This in the hope of being contradicted.

But Madelene simply said:  “Perhaps he’d not feel toward you as he seems to think he does if he hadn’t known you before you went East and got fond of the sort of thing that attracts you in Ross Whitney.  Anyhow, Dory’s the kind of man to be less unhappy over losing you than over keeping you when you didn’t want to stay.  You may be like his eyes to him, but you know if that sort of man loses his sight he puts seeing out of the calculation and goes on just the same.  Dory Hargrave is a man; and a real man is bigger than any love affair, however big.”

Del was trying to hide the deep and smarting wound to her vanity.  “You are right, Madelene,” said she.  “Dory is cold.”

“But I didn’t say that,” replied Madelene.  “Most of us prefer people like those flabby sea creatures that are tossed aimlessly about by the waves and have no permanent shape or real purposes and desires, but take whatever their feeble tentacles can hold without effort.”  Del winced, and it was the highest tribute to Dr. Madelene’s skill that the patient did not hate her and refuse further surgery.  “We’re used to that sort,” continued she.  “So when a really alive, vigorous, pushing, and resisting personality comes in contact with us, we say, ‘How hard!  How unfeeling!’ The truth, of course,