Waythorn could afford to smile at these innuendoes.  In the Wall Street phrase, he had “discounted” them.  He knew that society has not yet adapted itself to the consequences of divorce, and that till the adaptation takes place every woman who uses the freedom the law accords her must be her own social justification.  Waythorn had an amused confidence in his wife’s ability to justify herself.  His expectations were fulfilled, and before the wedding took place Alice Varick’s group had rallied openly to her support.  She took it all imperturbably:  she had a way of surmounting obstacles without seeming to be aware of them, and Waythorn looked back with wonder at the trivialities over which he had worn his nerves thin.  He had the sense of having found refuge in a richer, warmer nature than his own, and his satisfaction, at the moment, was humorously summed up in the thought that his wife, when she had done all she could for Lily, would not be ashamed to come down and enjoy a good dinner.

The anticipation of such enjoyment was not, however, the sentiment expressed by Mrs. Waythorn’s charming face when she presently joined him.  Though she had put on her most engaging teagown she had neglected to assume the smile that went with it, and Waythorn thought he had never seen her look so nearly worried.

“What is it?” he asked.  “Is anything wrong with Lily?”

“No; I’ve just been in and she’s still sleeping.”  Mrs. Waythorn hesitated.  “But something tiresome has happened.”

He had taken her two hands, and now perceived that he was crushing a paper between them.

“This letter?”

“Yes—­Mr. Haskett has written—­I mean his lawyer has written.”

Waythorn felt himself flush uncomfortably.  He dropped his wife’s hands.

“What about?”

“About seeing Lily.  You know the courts—­”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted nervously.

Nothing was known about Haskett in New York.  He was vaguely supposed to have remained in the outer darkness from which his wife had been rescued, and Waythorn was one of the few who were aware that he had given up his business in Utica and followed her to New York in order to be near his little girl.  In the days of his wooing, Waythorn had often met Lily on the doorstep, rosy and smiling, on her way “to see papa.”

“I am so sorry,” Mrs. Waythorn murmured.

He roused himself.  “What does he want?”

“He wants to see her.  You know she goes to him once a week.”

“Well—­he doesn’t expect her to go to him now, does he?”

“No—­he has heard of her illness; but he expects to come here.”

“Here?”

Mrs. Waythorn reddened under his gaze.  They looked away from each other.

“I’m afraid he has the right....You’ll see....”  She made a proffer of the letter.

Waythorn moved away with a gesture of refusal.  He stood staring about the softly lighted room, which a moment before had seemed so full of bridal intimacy.