Clouds had risen, and she hurried before the shower.  It was a real April shower, wind with a rush and a silver downpour.  Mary, coming into the dark living-room, threw herself on the couch in a far corner and drew a rug over her.  The couch was backed up against a table which held a lamp and a row of books.  Mary had a certain feeling of content in the way the furniture seemed to shut her in.  There was no sound but the splashing of rain against the windows.

She fell asleep at last, and waked to find that Mills and Dulcie had come in.  No lights were on; the room was in twilight dimness.

Mills had met Dulcie at her front door.  “How dear of you to come,” she had told him.

He had spoken of his desertion of Mary.  “But this day was made for you, Dulcie.”

They had walked on together, not heeding where they went, and when the storm had caught them they were nearer Mills’ house than Dulcie’s and so he had taken her there.  They had entered the apparently empty room.

“Mary is still at church.  Come and dry your little feet by my fire, Dulcie.”  Mills knelt and fanned the flame.

Mary, coming slowly back from her dreams, heard this and other things, and at last Dulcie’s voice in protest: 

“Dear, we must think of Mary.”

“Poor Mary!”

Now the thing that Mary hated more than anything else in the whole world was pity.  Through all the shock of the astounding revelation that Mills and Dulcie cared for each other came the sting of their sympathy.  She sat up, a shadow among the shadows.

“I mustn’t stay, Mills,” Dulcie was declaring.

“Why not?”

“I feel like a—­thief—­”

“Nonsense, we are only taking our own, Dulcie.  We should have taken it years ago.  Loving you I should never have married Mary.”

“I had a conscience then, Mills, and you had promised.”

“But now you see it differently, Dulcie?”

“Perhaps.”

Mills was on his knees beside Dulcie’s chair, kissing her hands.  The fire lighted them.  It was like a play, with Mary a forlorn spectator in the blackness of the pit.

“Let me go now, Mills.”

“Wait till Mary comes—­we’ll tell her.”

“No, oh, poor Mary!”

Poor Mary indeed!

“Anyhow you’ve got to stay, Dulcie, and sing for me, and when Mary comes back she’ll get us some supper and I’ll read you my new verses.”

Among the shadows Mary had a moment of tragic mirth.  Then she set her feet on the floor and spoke: 

“I’m sorry, Mills, but I couldn’t cook supper to-night if I died for it—­”

From their bright circle of light they peered at her.

“Oh, my poor dear!” Dulcie said.

“I’m not poor,” Mary told her, “but I’m tired, dead tired, and my head aches dreadfully, and if you want Mills you can have him.”

“Have him?” Dulcie whispered.