“I think such stories are inexcusable here!” exclaimed Katherine indignantly.

“So do I, Mrs. Jack,” replied Cartwell.  “I won’t do it again.”

Porter’s face stained a deep mahogany and he bowed stiffly to Katherine.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Newman!”

“I feel as if I were visiting a group of anarchists,” said Rhoda plaintively, “and had innocently passed round a bomb on which to make conversation!”

Jack Newman laughed, the tension relaxed, and in a moment the dinner was proceeding merrily, though Porter and Cartwell carefully avoided speaking to each other.  Most of the conversation centered around Rhoda.  Katherine always had been devoted to her friend.  And though men always had paid homage to Rhoda, since her illness had enhanced her delicacy, and had made her so appealingly helpless, they were drawn to her as surely as bee to flower.  Old and young, dignified and happy-go-lucky, all were moved irresistibly to do something for her, to coddle her, to undertake impossible missions, self-imposed.

Porter from his place of vantage beside her kept her plate heaped with delicacies, calmly removed the breast of chicken from his own plate to hers, all but fed her with a spoon when she refused to more than nibble at her meal.

DeWitt’s special night-mare was that drafts were blowing on her.  He kept excusing himself from the table to open and close windows and doors, to hang over her chair so as to feel for himself if the wind touched her.

Katherine and Jack kept Li Chung trotting to the kitchen for different dainties with which to tempt her.  Only Cartwell did nothing.  He kept up what seemed to be his usual fire of amiable conversation and watched Rhoda constantly through inscrutable black eyes.  But he made no attempt to serve her.

Rhoda was scarcely conscious of the deference showed her, partly because she had received it so long, partly because that detached frame of mind of the hopeless invalid made the life about her seem shadowy and unreal.  Nothing really mattered much.  She lay back in her chair with the little wistful smile, the somber light in her eyes that had become habitual to her.

After dinner was finished Katherine led the way to the living-room.  To his unspeakable pride, Rhoda took Billy Porter’s arm and he guided her listless footsteps carefully, casting pitying glances on his less favored friends.  Jack wheeled a Morris chair before the fireplace—­desert nights are cool—­and John DeWitt hurried for a shawl, while Katherine gave every one orders that no one heeded in the least.

Cartwell followed after the others, slowly lighted a cigarette, then seated himself at the piano.  For the rest of the evening he made no attempt to join in the fragmentary conversation.  Instead he sang softly, as if to himself, touching the keys so gently that their notes seemed only the echo of his mellow voice.  He sang bits of Spanish love-songs, of Mexican lullabies.  But for the most part he kept to Indian melodies—­wistful love-songs and chants that touched the listener with strange poignancy.