Mrs. Maynard was tall, pale, and worldly.  Traces of lost beauty flashed in her rare smiles.  When Frank Maynard had failed in business she had shrouded her soul in bitterness; and she saw the slow cruel years whiten his head and bend his shoulders with the cold eye of a woman who had no forgiveness for failure.  After Mr. Maynard’s reverse, all that kept the pair together were the son Blair, and the sweet, fair-haired, delicate Margaret, a girl of eighteen, whom the father loved, and for whom the mother had large ambitions.  They still managed, in ways mysterious to the curious, to keep their fine residence in the River Park suburb of Middleville.

On this April afternoon the tea was neglected in the cups, and there was nothing of the usual mild gossip.  The discussion involved Daren Lane, and when two of those social arbiters settled back in their chairs the open sesame of Middleville’s select affairs had been denied to him.

“Why did he do it?” asked Mrs. Kingsley.

“He must have been under the influence of liquor,” replied Mrs. Maynard, who had her own reasons for being relieved at the disgrace of Daren Lane.

“No, Jane, you’re wrong,” spoke up Mrs. Wrapp, who, whatever else she might be, was blunt and fair-minded.  “Lane wasn’t drunk.  He never drank before the war.  I knew him well.  He and Helen had a puppy-love affair—­they were engaged before Lane went to war.  Well, the day after his return he called on us.  And if I never liked him before I liked him then.  He’s come back to die!  He was ill for two weeks—­and then he crawled out of bed again.  I met him down town one day.  He really looked better, and told me with a sad smile that he had ’his ups and downs’....  No, Lane wasn’t drunk at Fanchon Smith’s dance the other night.  I was there, and I was with Mrs. Smith when Lane came up to us.  If ever I saw a cool, smooth, handsome devil it was Lane....  Well, he said what he said.  I thought Mrs. Smith would faint.  It is my idea Lane had a deep motive back of his remark about Fanchon’s dress and her dancing.  The fact is Lane was sick at what he saw—­sick and angry.  And he wanted Fanchon’s mother and me to know what he thought.”

“It was an insult,” declared Mrs. Maynard, vehemently.

“It made Mrs. Smith ill,” added Mrs. Kingsley.  “She told me Fanchon tormented the life out of her, trying to learn what Lane said.  Mrs. Smith would not tell.  But Fanchon came to me and I told her.  Such a perfectly furious girl!  She’ll not wear that dress or dance that dance very soon again.  The story is all over town.”

“Friends, there are two sides to every question,” interposed the forceful Mrs. Wrapp.  “If Lane cared to be popular he would have used more tact.  But I don’t think his remark was an insult.  It was pretty raw, I admit.  But the dress was indecent and the dance was rotten.  Helen told me Fanchon was half shot.  So how could she be insulted?”