Loraine’s point of view was shifting dangerously.  Paul had at first been a pleasing playmate and a celebrity whose devotion was flattering as a tribute to her charm and beauty.  Now a constant comparison asserted itself to her mind between her husband’s financial limitations and the pleasing scope of Paul’s access to Hamilton’s treasury.  Discontent had entered her Eden—­and it was no longer an Eden.

One morning Paul’s telephone rang before he was out of bed.

“I must see you,” announced Loraine, and the familiar voice was excitedly urgent.  “Len has been odious and I—­I want your advice.  There’s no one else that I can talk to.”

Paul Burton hesitated.  His timidity balked at facing a moment which might call upon him to take a courageous stand or one fronting possible reprisals.  Over his face crept a terror very much like that which had blanched it years ago when the Marquess kid threatened him with grimaces across the school aisle.  He divined the subject which she wished to discuss and dreaded the interview.  The ethical side of the matter gave him no concern; but the same lack of stamina which caused him to shrink made it impossible for him to refuse.

“Where shall I meet you?” he hesitantly inquired, “at Sherry’s as usual?”

“No,” she hastily objected.  “That has become rather too usual.”  She named a place in lower Fifth avenue which Fashion regards as delightfully Bohemian and Bohemia considers alluringly fashionable.  She named an hour when the place would be empty enough for an undisturbed rendezvous.

Now, as Paul Burton sat opposite Loraine Haswell at one of the small and snowy tables, he sought to cloak his nervousness under a guise of debonair ease and soon the woman was embarked upon the recital of her grievances.

“Len has had an utterly intolerable fit of jealousy,” she confided; then fell silent while she nibbled at a melon.  But her dark eyes were full of beauty’s appeal and injured distress.  “It’s reached a point, Paul—­” her voice became very soft, almost tearful—­“where I’m afraid I must make a decision:  the sort of decision that it’s very hard for a woman to make.”

“Was he unkind to you?” Her companion sought to speak with indignation, but a note sounded through his voice which punctured the assumption with falsity.  It was occurring to him that Len Haswell might be particularly unkind to him.

She leaned far over the table and spoke guardedly.

“He has made me promise that I sha’n’t see you again, except where we meet by accident; that all our innocent little parties must end.”

“And you promised?”

Slowly and reluctantly she nodded her head.  “It was that or—­” she broke off.

“Or what?”

“Or a separation.  He said I must choose definitely between you.”  Paul Burton studied his plate in the silence of indecision, and she went on rather haltingly.  “When marriage reaches the ultimatum stage, it doesn’t offer much chance for happiness, does it?” Then after a pause she added thoughtfully, “It’s not as though there were children to consider.”