Waythorn winced at the allusion.  He had heard it rumored that a lack of funds had been one of the determining causes of the Varick separation, but it did not occur to him that Varick’s words were intentional.  It seemed more likely that the desire to keep clear of embarrassing topics had fatally drawn him into one.  Waythorn did not wish to be outdone in civility.

“We’ll do the best we can for you,” he said.  “I think this is a good thing you’re in.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s immense.  It’s awfully good of you—­” Varick broke off, embarrassed.  “I suppose the thing’s settled now—­but if—­”

“If anything happens before Sellers is about, I’ll see you again,” said Waythorn quietly.  He was glad, in the end, to appear the more self-possessed of the two.

The course of Lily’s illness ran smooth, and as the days passed Waythorn grew used to the idea of Haskett’s weekly visit.  The first time the day came round, he stayed out late, and questioned his wife as to the visit on his return.  She replied at once that Haskett had merely seen the nurse downstairs, as the doctor did not wish any one in the child’s sick-room till after the crisis.

The following week Waythorn was again conscious of the recurrence of the day, but had forgotten it by the time he came home to dinner.  The crisis of the disease came a few days later, with a rapid decline of fever, and the little girl was pronounced out of danger.  In the rejoicing which ensued the thought of Haskett passed out of Waythorn’s mind and one afternoon, letting himself into the house with a latchkey, he went straight to his library without noticing a shabby hat and umbrella in the hall.

In the library he found a small effaced-looking man with a thinnish gray beard sitting on the edge of a chair.  The stranger might have been a piano-tuner, or one of those mysteriously efficient persons who are summoned in emergencies to adjust some detail of the domestic machinery.  He blinked at Waythorn through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and said mildly:  “Mr. Waythorn, I presume?  I am Lily’s father.”

Waythorn flushed.  “Oh—­” he stammered uncomfortably.  He broke off, disliking to appear rude.  Inwardly he was trying to adjust the actual Haskett to the image of him projected by his wife’s reminiscences.  Waythorn had been allowed to infer that Alice’s first husband was a brute.

“I am sorry to intrude,” said Haskett, with his over-the-counter politeness.

“Don’t mention it,” returned Waythorn, collecting himself.  “I suppose the nurse has been told?”

“I presume so.  I can wait,” said Haskett.  He had a resigned way of speaking, as though life had worn down his natural powers of resistance.

Waythorn stood on the threshold, nervously pulling off his gloves.

“I’m sorry you’ve been detained.  I will send for the nurse,” he said; and as he opened the door he added with an effort:  “I’m glad we can give you a good report of Lily.”  He winced as the we slipped out, but Haskett seemed not to notice it.