Rachael felt actually sick with shock.  She felt as if some vital cord in her anatomy had been snapped, and as if she could never control these heavy languid limbs of hers again.  Her head ached.  A lassitude seemed to possess her.  She felt cold, and old, and helpless in the face of so much youth and beauty.

Magsie—­and Warren.  She must accustom herself to the thought.  They cared for each other.  They cared—­Rachael’s heart seemed to shut with an icy spasm, she felt herself choking and shut her eyes.

Well, what could they do—­at worst?  Could Magsie go out now, and get into the Gregory motor car, and say, “Home, Martin!” to the man?  Could Magsie run up the steps of the Washington Square house, gather the cream of the day’s news from the butler in a breath, and, flinging off furs and wraps, catch the two glorious boys to her heart?

No!  However the situation developed, Rachael was still the wife.  Rachael held the advantage, and whatever poor Magsie’s influence was, it could be but temporary, it must be unrecognized and unapproved by the world.

Slowly self-control came back, the dizziness subsided, the room sank and settled into its usual aspect.  It was hideous, but it was a fact, she must face it—­she must face it.  There was an honorable way, and a dignified way, and that must be her way.  No one must know.

Presently the table near her was empty, and she began to breathe more naturally.  She pondered so deeply that for a long time the room was forgotten, and the moving crowd shifted about her unseen.  Then abstractedly she rose, and went slowly out to the waiting car.  She carried a heart of lead.

“I’ve kept you waiting, Martin?”

Martin merely touched his hat.  It was four o’clock.

And so Rachael found herself facing an unbelievable situation.  To love, and to know herself unloved, was a cold, dull misery that clung like a weight to her heart.  Her thoughts stumbled in a close, hot fog; from sheer weariness she abandoned them again and again.

She had never been a reasonable woman, but she forced herself to be reasonable now.  Logic and philosophy had never been her natural defences, but she brought logic and philosophy to bear upon this hideous circumstance.  She did not waste time and tears upon a futile “Why?” It was too late now to question; the fact spoke for itself.  Warren’s senses were wrapped in the charms of another woman.  His own devoted and still young and beautiful wife was not the first devoted and young and beautiful woman to have her claim displaced.

For days after the episode in the Waldorf lunch-room she moved like a conspirator, watching, thinking.  Warren had never seemed more considerate of her happiness, more satisfied with life.  He was full of agreeable chatter at breakfast, interested in her plans, amused at the boys.  He did not come home for luncheon, but usually ran up the steps at five o’clock, and was reading or dressing when Rachael wandered into his room to greet him after the day.  He never kissed her now, or touched her hand even by chance; she was reminded, in his general aspect, of those occasions when the delicious Derry wandered out from the nursery, evading the nap which was his duty, but full of the airy conversation and small endearments that only a child on sufferance knows.