“Carley dear, you don’t look so very well,” said Eleanor, after greetings had been exchanged.

“Oh, what does it matter how I look?” queried Carley, impatiently.

“You were so wonderful when you got home from Arizona.”

“If I was wonderful and am now commonplace you can thank your old New York for it.”

“Carley, don’t you care for New York any more?” asked Eleanor.

“Oh, New York is all right, I suppose.  It’s I who am wrong.”

“My dear, you puzzle me these days.  You’ve changed.  I’m sorry.  I’m afraid you’re unhappy.”

“Me?  Oh, impossible!  I’m in a seventh heaven,” replied Carley, with a hard little laugh.  “What ’re you doing this afternoon?  Let’s go out—­riding—­or somewhere.”

“I’m expecting the dressmaker.”

“Where are you going to-night?”

“Dinner and theater.  It’s a party, or I’d ask you.”

“What did you do yesterday and the day before, and the days before that?”

Eleanor laughed indulgently, and acquainted Carley with a record of her social wanderings during the last few days.

“The same old things—­over and over again!  Eleanor don’t you get sick of it?” queried Carley.

“Oh yes, to tell the truth,” returned Eleanor, thoughtfully.  “But there’s nothing else to do.”

“Eleanor, I’m no better than you,” said Carley, with disdain.  “I’m as useless and idle.  But I’m beginning to see myself—­and you—­and all this rotten crowd of ours.  We’re no good.  But you’re married, Eleanor.  You’re settled in life.  You ought to do something.  I’m single and at loose ends.  Oh, I’m in revolt! . . .  Think, Eleanor, just think.  Your husband works hard to keep you in this expensive apartment.  You have a car.  He dresses you in silks and satins.  You wear diamonds.  You eat your breakfast in bed.  You loll around in a pink dressing gown all morning.  You dress for lunch or tea.  You ride or golf or worse than waste your time on some lounge lizard, dancing till time to come home to dress for dinner.  You let other men make love to you.  Oh, don’t get sore.  You do. . . .  And so goes the round of your life.  What good on earth are you, anyhow?  You’re just a—­a gratification to the senses of your husband.  And at that you don’t see much of him.”

“Carley, how you rave!” exclaimed her friend.  “What has gotten into you lately?  Why, everybody tells me you’re—­you’re queer!  The way you insulted Morrison—­how unlike you, Carley!”

“I’m glad I found the nerve to do it.  What do you think, Eleanor?”

“Oh, I despise him.  But you can’t say the things you feel.”

“You’d be bigger and truer if you did.  Some day I’ll break out and flay you and your friends alive.”

“But, Carley, you’re my friend and you’re just exactly like we are.  Or you were, quite recently.”

“Of course, I’m your friend.  I’ve always loved you, Eleanor,” went on Carley, earnestly.  “I’m as deep in this—­this damned stagnant muck as you, or anyone.  But I’m no longer blind.  There’s something terribly wrong with us women, and it’s not what Morrison hinted.”