Slowly health and strength came back, and one by one Rachael took up the dropped threads of her life.  The early spring found her apparently herself again, but there was a touch of gray here and there in her dark hair, and Elinor and Judy told each other that her spirits were not the same.

They did not know what Rachael knew, that there was a change in Warren, so puzzling, so disquieting, that his wife’s convalescence was delayed by many a wakeful hour and many a burst of secret tears on his account.  She could not even analyze it, much less was she fit to battle with it with her old splendid strength and sanity.

His general attitude toward her, in these days, was one of paternal and brisk kindliness.  He liked her new gown, he didn’t care much for that hat, she didn’t look awfully well, better telephone old George, it wouldn’t do to have her sick again!  Yes, he was going out, unless she wanted him for something?  She was reminded hideously of her old days with Clarence.

Shaken and weak still, she fought gallantly against the pain and bewilderment of the new problem.  She invited the persons he liked to the house, she effaced her own claim, she tried to get him to talk of his cases.  Sometimes, as the spring ripened, she planned whole days with him in the car.  They would go up to Ossining and see the Perrys, or they would go to Jersey and spend the day with Doctor Cheseborough.

Perhaps Warren accepted these suggestions, and they had a cloudless day.  Or when Sunday morning came, and the boys, coated and capped, were eager to start, he might evade them.

“I wonder if you’ll feel badly, Petty, if I don’t go?”

“Oh, Warren!”

“Well, my dear, I’ve got some work to do.  I ought to look up that meningitis case—­the Italian child.  Louise’ll give me a bite of lunch—­”

“But, dearest, that spoils our day!” Rachael would fling her wraps down, and face him ruefully.  “How can I go alone!_ I don’t want to.  And it’s such a day, and the babies are so sweet—­”

“There’s no reason why you and the children shouldn’t go.”  She had come to know that mild, almost reproachful, tone.

“Oh, but Warren, that spoils it all!”

“I’m sorry!”

Rachael would shut her lips firmly over protest.  At best she might wring from him a reluctant change of mind and an annoyed offer of company which she must from sheer pride decline.  At worst she would be treated with a dignified silence—­the peevish and exacting woman who could not understand.

So she would go slowly down to the car, to Mary beaming beside Martin in the front seat, to the delicious boys tumbling about in the back, eager for Mother.  With one on each side of her, a retaining hand on the little gaiters, she would wave the attentive husband and father an amiable farewell.  The motor car would wheel about in the bare May sunshine, the river would be a ripple of dancing blue waves, morning riders would canter on the bridle-path, and white-frocked babies toddle along the paths.  Such a morning for a ride, if only Warren were there!  But Rachael would try to enjoy her run, and would eat Mrs. Perry’s or Mrs. Cheseborough’s fried chicken and home-made ices with gracious enthusiasm; everyone was quite ready to excuse Warren; his beautiful wife was the more popular of the two.