“This is nice of you, Magsie,” Rachael said, watching her closely, and conscious still of that absurd flutter at her heart.  Both women had seated themselves, now Rachael reached for the silk-lined basket where she kept a little pretence of needlework, and began to sew.  There were several squares of dark rich silks in the basket, and their touch seemed to give her confidence.

“What are you making?” said Magsie with a rather touching pretence at interest.  Rachael began to perceive that Magsie was ill at ease, too.  She knew the girl well enough to know that nothing but her own affairs interested her; it was not like Magsie to ask seriously about another woman’s sewing.

“Warren likes silk handkerchiefs,” explained Rachael, all the capable wife, “and those I make are much prettier than those he can find in the shops.  So I pick up pieces of silk, from time to time, and keep him supplied.”

“He always has beautiful handkerchiefs,” said Magsie rather faintly.  “I remember, years ago, when I was with Mrs. Torrence, thinking that Greg always looked so—­so carefully groomed.”

“A doctor has to be,” Rachael answered sensibly.  There were no girlish vapors or uncertainties about her manner; she had been the man’s wife for nearly seven years; she was in his house; she need not fear Magsie Clay.

“I suppose so,” Magsie said vaguely.

“What are your plans, Magsie?” Rachael asked kindly, as she threaded a needle.

“We close on the eighteenth,” Magsie announced.

“Yes, so I noticed.”  Rachael had looked for this news every week since the run of the play began.  “Well, that was a successful engagement, wasn’t it?” she asked.  It began to be rather a satisfaction to Rachael to find herself at such close quarters at last.  What a harmless little thing this dreaded opponent was, after all!

“Yes, they were delighted,” Magsie responded still in such a lackadaisical, toneless, and dreary manner that Rachael glanced at her in surprise.  Magsie’s eyes were full of tears.

“Why, what’s the matter, my dear child?” she asked, feeling more sure of herself every instant.

Her guest took a little handkerchief from her pretty white leather purse, and touched her bright brown eyes with it lightly.

“I’ll tell you, Rachael,” said she, with an evident effort at brightness and naturalness, “I came here to see you about something to-day, but I—­I don’t quite know how to begin.  Only, whatever you think about it, I want you to remember that your opinion is what counts; you’re the one person who—­who can really advise me, and—­and perhaps help me and other people out of a difficulty.”

Rachael looked at her with a twinge of inward distaste.  This rather dramatic start did not promise well; she was to be treated to some youthful heroics.  Instantly the hope came to her that Magsie had some new admirer, someone she would really consider as a husband, and wanted to make of Rachael an advocate with Warren, who, in his present absurd state of infatuation, might not find such a situation to his taste.