They had been hastily recalled from their honeymoon by the illness of Lily Haskett, the child of Mrs. Waythorn’s first marriage.  The little girl, at Waythorn’s desire, had been transferred to his house on the day of her mother’s wedding, and the doctor, on their arrival, broke the news that she was ill with typhoid, but declared that all the symptoms were favorable.  Lily could show twelve years of unblemished health, and the case promised to be a light one.  The nurse spoke as reassuringly, and after a moment of alarm Mrs. Waythorn had adjusted herself to the situation.  She was very fond of Lily—­her affection for the child had perhaps been her decisive charm in Waythorn’s eyes—­but she had the perfectly balanced nerves which her little girl had inherited, and no woman ever wasted less tissue in unproductive worry.  Waythorn was therefore quite prepared to see her come in presently, a little late because of a last look at Lily, but as serene and well-appointed as if her good-night kiss had been laid on the brow of health.  Her composure was restful to him; it acted as ballast to his somewhat unstable sensibilities.  As he pictured her bending over the child’s bed he thought how soothing her presence must be in illness:  her very step would prognosticate recovery.

His own life had been a gray one, from temperament rather than circumstance, and he had been drawn to her by the unperturbed gayety which kept her fresh and elastic at an age when most women’s activities are growing either slack or febrile.  He knew what was said about her; for, popular as she was, there had always been a faint undercurrent of detraction.  When she had appeared in New York, nine or ten years earlier, as the pretty Mrs. Haskett whom Gus Varick had unearthed somewhere—­was it in Pittsburgh or Utica?—­society, while promptly accepting her, had reserved the right to cast a doubt on its own discrimination.  Inquiry, however, established her undoubted connection with a socially reigning family, and explained her recent divorce as the natural result of a runaway match at seventeen; and as nothing was known of Mr. Haskett it was easy to believe the worst of him.

Alice Haskett’s remarriage with Gus Varick was a passport to the set whose recognition she coveted, and for a few years the Varicks were the most popular couple in town.  Unfortunately the alliance was brief and stormy, and this time the husband had his champions.  Still, even Varick’s stanchest supporters admitted that he was not meant for matrimony, and Mrs. Varick’s grievances were of a nature to bear the inspection of the New York courts.  A New York divorce is in itself a diploma of virtue, and in the semi-widowhood of this second separation Mrs. Varick took on an air of sanctity, and was allowed to confide her wrongs to some of the most scrupulous ears in town.  But when it was known that she was to marry Waythorn there was a momentary reaction.  Her best friends would have preferred to see her remain in the role of the injured wife, which was as becoming to her as crape to a rosy complexion.  True, a decent time had elapsed, and it was not even suggested that Waythorn had supplanted his predecessor.  Still, people shook their heads over him, and one grudging friend, to whom he affirmed that he took the step with his eyes open, replied oracularly:  “Yes—­and with your ears shut.”