“Until Julie comes out—­she’s nearly fourteen.  But you ought to be ashamed, when we’ve been working like Turks.  Eugenia cut up every bit of the chicken salad and Emma Carr made the mayonnaise—­she makes the most delicious you ever tasted.  Aren’t those candelabra visions?  Emma lent them to me, and Mrs. Randolph sent her oriental lamps.  There’s the bell now!  It must be Eugie’s extra forks; she said she’d send them as soon as she got home.”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Galt feebly.  “You are as great at borrowing as the children of Israel.”

His comments were cut short by the entrance of Eugenia’s silver basket, accompanied by an enormous punch bowl, which she sent word she had remembered at the last moment.

“Bless her heart!” exclaimed Juliet.  “She forgets nothing; but I hope that bowl won’t get broken, it is one somebody brought the general from China fifty years ago.  Eugie is so careless.  She invited the children to tea the other afternoon and I found her giving them jam on those old Tucker Royal Worcester plates.”

She broke off an instant to draw Galt into the reception rooms, where her eyes roved sharply over the decorations.

“They look lovely, don’t they?” she inquired, rearranging a bowl of American Beauty roses.  “I got that new man to do them Mrs. Carrington told me about—­Yes, Carrie, I’m coming!  Why, I declare, I haven’t seen the baby since breakfast.  Unnatural mother!”

And she rushed off to the nursery, followed by Galt.

An hour later she was in the drawing-room again, her fair hair caught back from her plump cheeks, her white bosom shining through soft falls of lace.

“I wonder how a man feels who isn’t married to a beauty,” remarked Galt, watching her matronly vanity dimple beneath his gaze.  He was as much her lover as he had been more than twenty years ago when pretty Juliet Burwell had put back her wedding veil to meet his kiss.  The very exactions of her petted nature had served to keep alive the passion of his youth; she demanded service as her right, and he yielded it as her due.  The unflinching shrewdness of his professional character, the hardness of his business beliefs, had never entered into the atmosphere of his home.  Juliet possessed to a degree that pervasive womanliness which vanquishes mankind.  After twenty years of married life in which Galt had learned her limitations and her minor sins of temperament, he was not able to face her stainless bosom or to meet her pure eyes without believing her to be a saint.  In his heart he knew Sally Burwell to be a nobler woman than Juliet, and yet he never found himself regarding Sally through an outward and visible veil of her virtues.  Even Tom Bassett, who was married to her, had lost the lover in the husband, as his emotions had matured into domestic sentiment.  Galt had seen Sally wrestle for a day with one of her father’s headaches, to be rewarded by less gratitude than Juliet would receive for the mere laying of a white finger on his temple—­Sally’s services were looked upon by those who loved her best as one of the daily facts of life; Juliet’s came always as an additional bounty.