“Do you suppose Billy’s with him?” Rachael asked, her absent, glittering eyes fixed upon her own person as she sat before her mirror.

“Oh, no—­she and Pickering sailed yesterday for England—­that’s the dreadful thing for her.  Clarence evidently spent the whole night at the club, sitting in the library, thinking.  Berry Stokes went in for his mail after the theatre, and they had a little talk.  He promised to dine there to-night.  At about ten this morning Billings, the steward there, saw old Maynard going out—­ Maynard’s one of the directors—­and asked him if he wouldn’t please go and speak to Mr. Breckenridge.  Mayn went over to him, and Clarence said, ‘Anything you say—­’”

Rachael gave a gasp that was like a shriek, and put her two elbows on the dressing-table, and her face in her hands.  It was Clarence’s familiar phrase.

“Oh, don’t—­don’t—­don’t—­Greg!”

“Well, that was all there was to it,” her husband said, watching her anxiously.  “He had the thing in his pocket.  He stood up—­ everybody heard it.  Fellows came rushing in from everywhere.  They got him to a hospital.”

“Florence is with him, of course?”

“Florence is at Palm Beach.”

“Then who is with him, Greg?”

“My dear girl, how do I know?  It’s none of my affair!”

Rachael sat still for perhaps two minutes, while her husband, ostentatiously cheerful, moved about the room selecting a change of clothes.

“To-morrow you can take it as hard as you like, sweet,” said he.  “But to-night you’ll have to face the music!  Now get into something warm—­it’s a little cool out—­and I’ll take you for a spin, and we’ll have dinner somewhere.  Then we’ll get back here about eight o’clock, and take our time dressing.”

“Yes, I’ll do that,” Rachael agreed automatically.  A moment later she said urgently:  “Warren, isn’t there a chance that I’m right about this?  Mightn’t it be better simply to telephone everyone that the dance is postponed?  Make it next week, or Mi-Careme—­ anything.  If they talk—­let them!  I don’t care what they say.  They’ll talk anyway.  But every fibre of my being, every delicate or decent instinct I ever had, rebels against this.  Say I’m not well, and let them buzz!  I know what you are going to say—­I know that it would seem less sensitive, less fine, to mourn for one man while I’m another man’s wife, than to absolutely ignore what happens to him, but you know what’s the truth!  I never loved him, and I love every hair of your head—­you know that.  Only—­”

She stopped short, baffled by the difficulty of expressing herself accurately.

“If you really love me, do what I ask you to-night,” Warren Gregory said firmly.

His wife sat as if turned to stone for only a few seconds.  When she spoke it was naturally and cheerfully.

“I’ll be ready in no time, dear.  Where are we to dine?” She glanced at her little crystal clock as she spoke, as if she were computing casually the length of the drive before dinner.  But what she said in her heart was, “At this time to-morrow it will all have been over for many hours!”