Rachael tried in vain to understand the affair; what evil genius possessed Warren; what possessed Magsie?  She tried to think kindly of Magsie; poor child, she had had no ugly intention, she was simply spoiled, simply an egotist undeveloped in brain and soul!

But—­Warren!  Well, Warren’s soft, simple heart had been touched by all that endearing kittenish confidence, by Magsie’s belief that he was the richest and cleverest and most powerful of men.

So they were meeting for lunch, for tea—­where else?  What did they talk about, what did they plan or hope or expect?  Through all her hot impatience Rachael believed that she could trust them both, in the graver sense.  Warren was as unlikely to take advantage of Magsie’s youthful innocence as Magsie was to definitely commit herself to a reckless course.

But what then?  Absurd, preposterous as it was, it was not all a joke.  It had already shut the sun from all Rachael’s sky.  What was it doing to Warren—­to Magsie?  With Rachael in a cold and dangerous mood, Warren evasive, unresponsive, troubled, what was Magsie feeling and thinking?

Proudly, and with a bitter pain at her heart, Rachael went through her empty days.  Her household affairs ran as if by magic; never was there a more successful conspiracy for one man’s comfort than that organized by Rachael and her maids.  For the first time since their marriage she and Warren were occupying separate rooms now, but Rachael made it a special charge to go in and out of his room constantly when he was there.  She would come in with his mail and his newspaper at nine o’clock, full of cheerful solicitude, or follow him in for the half-hour just before dinner, chatting with apparent ease of heart while he dressed.

Only apparent ease of heart, however, for Warren’s invariable courtesy and sweetness filled his wife with sick apprehension.  Ah, for the old good hours when he scolded and argued, protested and laughed over the developments of the day.  Sometimes, nowadays, he hardly heard her, despite his bright, interested smile.  Once he had commented upon her gown the instant she came into the room; now he never seemed to see her at all; as a matter of fact, their eyes never met.

In February he told her suddenly that Margaret Clay was to open in another fortnight at the Lyric, in a new play by Gideon Barrett, called “The Bad Little Lady.”

“At the Lyric!” Rachael said in a rush of something almost like joy that they could speak of Magsie at last, “and one of Barrett’s!  Well, Magsie is coming on!  What part does she take?”

“The lead—­the title part—­Patricia Something-or-other, I believe.”

“The lead!  At the Lyric—­why, isn’t that an astonishing compliment to Magsie!”

Warren looked for his paper-cutter, cut a page, and shrugged his shoulders without glancing up from his book.

“Well, yes, I suppose it is.  But of course she’s gone steadily ahead.”