“I am going first to the dressmaker, to see about having that lovely frock you bought me fitted for Delilah’s tea dance; then I’ll meet you at Mrs. Carey’s luncheon.  And after that will be our drive with Porter, and the private view at the Corcoran, then two teas, and later the dinner at Mrs. Bigelow’s.  I’m afraid it will be pretty strenuous for you, Constance.”

“I sha’n’t try to take in the teas.  I’ll come home and lie down before I have to dress for dinner.”

As she followed out her programme for the day, Mary was conscious that she was doing it well.  She made conscientious plans with her dressmaker, she gave herself gayly to the light chatter of the luncheon; during the drive she matched Porter’s exuberant mood with her own, she viewed the pictures and made intelligent comments.

After the view, Constance went home in Porter’s car, and Mary was left at a house on Dupont Circle.  Porter’s eyes had begged that she would let him come with her, but she had refused to meet his eyes, and had sent him off.

As she passed through the glimmer of the golden rooms, she bowed and smiled to the people that she knew, she joked with Jerry Tuckerman, who insisted on looking after her and getting her an ice.  And then, as soon as she decently could, she got away, and came out into the open air, drawing a long breath, as one who has been caged and who makes a break for freedom.

She did not go to the other tea.  All day she had lived in a dream, doing that which was required of her and doing it well.  But from now until the time that she must go home and dress for dinner, she would give herself up to thoughts of Roger Poole.

She turned down Connecticut Avenue, and walking lightly and quickly came at last to the old church, where all her life she had worshiped.  At this hour there was no service, and she knelt for a moment, then sat back in her pew, glad of the sense of absolute immunity from interruption.

And as she sat there in the stillness, one sentence from his letter stood out.

“And now what meaning for me had the candles on the altar, what meaning the voices in the choir?  I had sung, too, in the light of the candles, but it was ordained that my voice must be forever still.”

This to Mary was the great tragedy—­his loss of courage, his loss of faith—­his acceptance of a passive future.  Resolutely she had conquered all the shivering agony which had swept over her as she had read of that sordid marriage and its sequence.  Resolutely she had risen above the faintness which threatened to submerge her as the whole of that unexpected history was presented to her; resolutely she had fought against a pity which threatened to overwhelm her.

Resolutely she had made herself face with clear eyes the conclusion; life had been too much for him and he had surrendered to fate.