“It’s about something harder to digest than this salad.  The public stomach is ostrichlike, but it can’t stand the water-cure.  Which is all Arabic to you, Rosalie, and I don’t mean to be impertinent, only the truth is I don’t know why people are losing confidence in the financial stability of the country, but they apparently are.”

“There’s a devilish row on down-town,” observed Delancy, blinking, as an unusually heavy clap of thunder rattled the dishes.

“What kind of a row?” asked Duane.

“Greensleeve & Co. have failed, with liabilities of a million and microscopical assets.”

Rosalie raised her eyebrows; Greensleeve & Co. were once brokers for her husband if she remembered correctly.  Duane had heard of them but was only vaguely impressed.

“Is that rather a bad thing?” he inquired.

“Well—­I don’t know.  It made a noise louder than that thunder.  Three banks fell down in Brooklyn, too.”

“What banks?”

Delancy named them; it sounded serious, but neither Duane nor Rosalie were any wiser.

“The Wolverine Mercantile Loan and Trust Company closed its doors, also,” observed Delancy, dropping the tips of his long, highly coloured fingers into his finger-bowl as though to wash away all personal responsibility for these financial flip-flaps.

Rosalie laughed:  “This is pleasant information for a rainy day,” she said.  “Duane, have you heard from Geraldine?”

“Yes, to-day,” he said innocently; “she is leaving Lenox this morning for Roya-Neh.  I hear that there is to be some shooting there Christmas week.  Scott writes that the boar and deer are increasing very fast and must be kept down.  You and Delancy are on the list, I believe.”

Rosalie nodded; Delancy said:  “Miss Seagrave has been good enough to ask the family.  Yours is booked, too, I fancy.”

“Yes, if my father only feels up to it.  Christmas at Roya-Neh ought to be a jolly affair.”

“Christmas anywhere away from New York ought to be a relief,” observed young Grandcourt drily.

They laughed without much spirit.  Coffee was served, cigarettes lighted.  Presently Grandcourt sent a page to find out if the car had returned from the garage where Rosalie had sent it for a minor repair.

The car was ready, it appeared; Rosalie retired to readjust her hair and veil; the two men standing glanced at one another: 

“I suppose you know,” said Delancy, reddening with embarrassment, “that Mr. and Mrs. Dysart have separated.”

“I heard so yesterday,” said Duane coolly.

The other grew redder:  “I heard it from Mrs. Dysart about half an hour ago.”  He hesitated, then frankly awkward:  “I say, Mallett, I’m a sort of an ass about these things.  Is there any impropriety in my going about with Mrs. Dysart—­under the circumstances?”

“Why—­no!” said Duane.  “Rosalie has to go about with people, I suppose.  Only—­perhaps it’s fairer to her if you don’t do it too often—­I mean it’s better for her that any one man should not appear to pay her noticeable attention.  You know what mischief can get into print.  What’s taken below stairs is often swiped and stealthily perused above stairs.”