It was sacrilege to think it.  It was always absurd, an older man’s kindly interest in, and affection for, a pretty young girl, but what harm?  He thought her beautiful, and charming, and talented-well, she was those things.  It was January now, in March they were going to California, then would come dear Home Dunes, and before the summer was over Magsie would be safely launched, or married, and the whole thing but an episode!  Warren was her husband and the father of her two splendid boys; there was tremendous reassurance in the thought.

But that evening, and throughout the weeks that followed, Rachael mused somewhat sadly upon the extraordinary susceptibility of the human male.  Magsie’s methods were those of a high-school belle.  She pouted, she dimpled, she dispensed babyish slaps, she lapsed into rather poorly imitated baby talk.  She was sometimes mysterious and tragic, according to her own lights, her voice deep, her eyes sombre; at other times she was all girl, wild for dancing and gossip and matinees.  She would widen her eyes demurely at some older woman, plaintively demanding a chaperon, all these bad men were worrying her to death; she had nicknames for all the men, and liked to ask their wives if there was any harm in that?  Like Billy, and like Charlotte, she never spoke of anyone but herself, but Billy was a mere beginner beside Magsie, and poor Charlotte like a denizen of another world.

Magsie always scored.  There was an air of refinement and propriety about the little gypsy that saved her most daring venture, and in a society bored to death with its own sameness she became an instant favorite.  Everyone said that “there was no harm in Magsie,” she was the eagerly heralded and loudly welcomed cap-and-bells wherever she went.

Early in March there was an entertainment given in one of the big hotels for some charity, and Miss Clay, who appeared in a dainty little French comedy, the last number on the program, captured all the honors.  Her companion player, Dr. Warren Gregory, who in the play had taken the part of her guardian, and, with his temples touched with gray, his peruke, and his satin coat and breeches, had been a handsome foil for her beauty, was declared excellent, but the captivating, piquant, enchanting Magsie was the favorite of the hour.  Before the hot, exciting, memorable evening was over the rumor flew about that she had signed a contract to appear with Bowman, the great manager, in the fall.

The whole experience was difficult for Rachael, but no one suspected it, and she would have given her life cheerfully to keep her world from suspecting.  Long before the rehearsals for the little play were over she knew the name of that new passion that was tearing and gnawing at her heart.  No use to tell herself that if Magsie was deeply admired by Warren, if Magsie was beautiful, if Magsie was constantly in his thoughts, way, she, Rachael, was still his wife; his home, his sons, his name were hers!  She was jealous—­jealous—­jealous of Magsie Clay.