He had expected to find this room changed, and yet he was not prepared for quite the quality of familiarity which it possessed.  Most of the old Hilmer knickknacks had been swept aside, their places taken by bits that had once enlivened the Starratt household.  Here was a silver vase that he had bought Helen for an anniversary present, and there a Whistler etching that had been their wedding portion.  His easy-chair was in a corner, and Helen’s music rack filled with all the things she used to play for his delight.  And on the mantel, in a silver frame, his picture, with a little bowl of fading flowers before it...  He went over and picked it up.  Instinctively he glanced in the mirror just in front of him... Dead ... quite dead! No wonder his wife put flowers before this photographic shrine...  For a moment he had a swooning hope that he had misjudged her ... that he had misread everybody ... that they had done everything for him that they thought was best.  But he emerged from this brief deception with a shuddering laugh...  He would not have cared so much if his wife had swept him from her life completely ... but to trample on him and still use his shadow as a screen—­this was too much!  What really pallid creatures these women of convention were!  How little they were prepared to risk anything!  He could almost hear the comments that Helen inspired: 

“Poor Helen Starratt!  She has had an awful time!...  I don’t know what she would have done without the Hilmers...  She’s so devoted to Mrs. Hilmer...  I do think it’s lovely that they can be together.”

He felt that he could have admired a Helen Starratt with the courage of her primitive instincts.  As it was, he was ashamed to own that he experienced even rancor at her pretenses.

He heard the sound of a wheeled chair coming toward the living room and he made a pretense of staring aimlessly into the street.  Presently a sepulchral voice broke the silence.  He turned—­Mrs. Hilmer was leaning forward in her chair, regarding him attentively, while the maid stood a little to one side.  He had expected to come upon a huddle of blond plumpness, an inanimate mass of forceless flesh robbed of its bovine suavity by inactivity.  What he saw was a body thin to emaciation and a face drawn into a tight-lipped discontent.  The old curves of flesh had melted, displaying the heaviness of the framework which had supported them.  The eyes were restless and glittering, the once-plump hands shrunken into claws.

“You ... you have a message from Sylvia Molineaux?”

She tossed the question toward him with biting directness.  Could it be possible that this was the same woman who had purred so contentedly over a receipt for corn pudding somewhat over a year ago?

He moved a step nearer.  “Yes ... but it is private.”

The maid made a slight grimace and put her hand protectingly upon Mrs. Hilmer’s chair.  Mrs. Hilmer shifted about impatiently.