“No, thank you.”  Mrs. Graham’s tone was still the cold, courteous one that she used in addressing me.  “I suppose I can ring for Katie when I am ready to have my dress fastened?”

“Oh! by all means,” I returned.  I thought bitterly of the little services I used to perform for my own mother.  How gladly I would anticipate the wants of Dicky’s mother if she would only show me affection instead of the ill-concealed aversion with which she regarded me.

My mother-in-law went into her room, and I, walking swiftly to mine, closed and locked the door behind me.  I threw myself face downward on the bed, my favorite posture when I wished to think things out.

The voice of the woman at the studio haunted me.  It was strange, but familiar, and I could not remember where I had heard it.

What was a woman doing in Dicky’s studio at this time in the morning, anyway?  I knew that Dicky employed feminine models, but I also knew that he always made it a point to be at the studio before the model was due to arrive.

“I suppose I am an awful crank,” he had laughed once, “but no models rummaging among my things for mine.”

I knew that Dicky employed no secretary, or at least he had told me that he did not I had heard him laughingly promise himself that when his income reached $10,000 a year he would hire one.

All at once the solution to the mystery dawned upon me.  The rich, musical voice belonged to Grace Draper, the beautiful girl whom Dicky had seen first on a train on our memorable trip to Marvin.

Why hadn’t Dicky told me that she was at the studio?  The question rankled in the back of my brain.

That was not my main concern, however.  What swept me with a sudden primitive emotion, which I know must be jealousy, was the picture of that beautiful face, that wonderful figure in daily close companionship with my husband.

Suppose she should fall in love with Dicky!  To my mind I did not see how any woman could help it.  Would she have any scruples about endeavoring to win Dicky’s love from me?

My common sense told me that this was the veriest nonsense.  But I could no more help my feelings than I could control the shape of my nose.

The ring of the telephone bell put a temporary end to my speculations.  I pulled myself together in order to talk calmly to Dicky, for I knew it must be he who was calling.

“Madge, is this you?  Whatever has happened?”

“Nothing is the matter,” I said quickly, “but you have your mother’s trunk checks, and she is anxious about them.”

“By Jove!” Dicky’s voice was full of consternation.  “I forgot everything about those trunk checks until this minute.  I should have attended to them yesterday, but”—­he hesitated, then finished lamely—­“I didn’t have time.”

I felt my face flush as though Dicky could see me.  The reason why he did not have time to see to his mother’s trunks on the day of her arrival, touched a subject any allusion to which would always bring a flush to my face.