Oh, to have him back again, in the old way, so infinitely dear and interested, so quick with laughter, so vigorous with comment, so unsparing where he blamed!  To have him come and kiss the white parting of her hair once more as she sat waiting for him at the breakfast table, turn to her in the car with his quick “Happy?” once more, hold her tight once more against his warm heart!

How unlike him it was, how contemptible it was, this playing with the glorious thing that had been their love!  For the first time in her life Rachael could have played the virago, could have raged and stamped, could have made him absolutely afraid to misuse her so.  He did not deserve such consideration, he should not be treated so gently.

While she sat alone, in the long evenings, she tried to follow him in her thoughts.  He was somewhere in the big, warm, dark theatre, watching the little pool of brightness in which Magsie moved, listening to the crisp, raw freshness of Magsie’s voice.  Night after night he must sit there, drinking in her beauty and charm, torturing himself with the thought of her inaccessibility.

It seemed strange to Rachael that this world-old tragedy should come into her life with all the stinging novelty of a calamity.  People and press talked about a murder, about an earthquake, about a fire.  Yet what was death or ruin or flames beside the horror of knowing love to be outgrown, of living beside this empty mask and shell of a man whose mind and soul were in bondage elsewhere?  Rachael came to know love as a power, and herself a victim of that power abused.

Slowly resentment began to find room in her heart.  It was all so childish, so futile, so unnecessary!  A prominent surgeon, the husband of a devoted wife, the father of two splendid sons, thus flinging pride and sanity to the wind, thus being caught in the lightly flung net of an ordinary, pretty little actress, the daughter of a domestic servant and a soldier in the ranks!  And what was to be the outcome?  Rachael mused sombrely.  Was Warren to tire simply of his folly, Magsie to carelessly fill his place in the ranks of her admirers, Rachael to gracefully forgive and forget?

It was an unpalatable role, yet she saw no other open to her.  What was to be gained by coldness, by anger, by controversy?  Was a man capable of Warren’s curious infatuation to be merely scolded and punished like a boy?  She was helpless and she knew it.  Until he actually transgressed against their love, she could make no move.  Even when he did, or if he did, her only recourse was the hated one of a public scandal:  accusations, recriminations.