Praise—­and praise—­and praise.  But there was blame, too; there was even sharply contemptuous criticism.  On the whole, Rachael had almost as much satisfaction from her morning’s reading as Magsie did.  The three most influential papers did not comment upon Miss Clay’s acting at all.  In two more, little Miss Elsie Eaton and Bryan Masters shared the honors.  The Sun remarked frankly that Miss Clay’s amateurish acting, her baby lisp, her utter unacquaintance with whatever made for dramatic art, would undoubtedly insure the play a long run.  Rachael knew that Warren would see all these papers, but she cut out all the pleasanter reviews and put them on his dresser.

“Did you see these?” she asked him at six o’clock.

“I glanced at some of them.  You’ve not got The Sun here?”

“No—­that was a mean one,” Rachael said sweetly.  “I thought it might distress you, as it probably did Magsie.”

“I saw it,” he said, evidently with no thought of her feeling in the matter.  “Lord, no one minds what The Sun thinks!”

“She’s really scored a success,” said Rachael reluctantly.  Warren did not answer.

For the next three evenings he did not come home to dinner, nor until late at night.  Rachael bore it with dignity, but her heart was sick within her.  She must simply play the waiting game, as many a better woman had before her, but she would punish Warren Gregory for this some day!

She dressed herself charmingly every evening, and dined alone, with a book.  Sometimes the old butler saw her look off from the page, and saw her breast rise on a quick, rebellious breath; and old Mary could have told of the hours her mistress spent in the nursery, sitting silent in the darkness by the sleeping boys, but both these old servants were loyalty’s self, and even Rachael never suspected their realization of the situation and their resentment.  To Vera, to Elinor, even to Alice Valentine, she said never a word.  She had discussed Clarence Breckenridge easily enough seven years before, but she could not criticise Warren Gregory to anyone.

On the fourth evening, when they were to dine with friends, Warren reached home in time to dress, and duly accompanied his wife to the affair.  He complained of a headache after dinner, and they went home at about half-past ten.  Rachael felt his constraint in the car, and for very shame could not make it hard for him when he suggested that he should go downtown again, to look in at the club.

“But is this right, is it fair?” she asked herself sombrely while she was slowly disrobing.  “Could I treat him so?  Of course I could not!  Why, I have never even looked at a man since our very wedding day—­never wanted to.  And I will be reasonable now.  I will be reasonable, but he tries me hard—­he makes it hard!”

She put her face in her hands and began to cry.  Warren was deluded and under a temporary spell, but still her dear and good and handsome husband, her dearest companion and confidant.  And she missed him.