“All right, Joe—­that’s fair, of course—­and I’ll do my best to make it exactly what you want.”

And in the dinner that she gave, Ethel lived up to her bargain.  The dinner was large; there were twenty guests.  The caterer was as before, and so were the food and the flowers.  And all through the evening Ethel was gracious and affable.  But behind her affability, hidden but subtly conveyed to each guest, was a serene good-bye to them.  This was their dismissal.  Did they all feel it, every one?  To her at least it seemed so.  Again and again she caught the men throwing looks of regret at Joe, and the women glancing about the rooms as though in search of what was gone.  Amy’s things!  Oh, more than that.  The whole atmosphere was gone.  This was the home of the second wife.

“Well, dear, did I live up to our bargain?” she asked her husband when they were alone.

“You did,” said Joe.  He looked at her then in such a puzzled, masculine fashion.  What she had done and how she had done it was plainly such a mystery to him.  “You did,” he repeated loyally.  She slipped her arms about his neck.

“Thank you, love,” she answered.  And in a moment or two she murmured, “Have them again in the Fall if you like.”

“No,” said Joe.  “Once was enough.”

“Now,” she asked herself the next day, “let’s try to see what all this means.”  She was almost speaking aloud.  She was growing so accustomed to these sociable little chats with herself.  “It means that I am getting on.  But Fanny Carr will still be about.  She won’t come here except just enough to keep up appearances, but she’ll still have her business dealings with Joe in the management of her property.  He means to keep in touch, he said, ’with a few of them’—­meaning her, of course—­and his tone conveyed quite plainly that I am to leave him alone in that until I can produce friends of my own.  Whereupon, my dear,” she threw up her hands, “we come back to exactly the same point at which we have been all along.  Where am I going to find friends?” And she gave an angry, baffled sigh.  “Oh, damn New York!”

As she glared viciously about the pretty, sunny living room, the image of its former tenant rose up in her memory.  And Ethel’s expression changed at once, became intent and thoughtful.  How much more attractive was Mrs. Grewe than were any of Amy’s set.  Immoral?  Yes, decidedly.  But what did “immoral” mean in this town?  Who was moral?  Fanny Carr?  Did these wives and divorcees do any good with their “moral” lives?  She recalled what Mrs. Grewe had said:  “And whether you marry or whether you don’t, for the life of me I can’t see any difference.”  And again:  “With your face and figure, my dear, you don’t have to put up with any one man.”  Ethel sat frowning straight before her.

“What kind of a life am I going to find?  I’m going to stay with my husband—­that’s sure.  I’m in love with him and he with me.  That much is decided.”