“She said so,” Rachael admitted, heart and mind in a whirl.

“From a sense of protection—­for her,” Warren went on, “I did not tell you how much we have come to mean to each other.  I am extremely—­unwilling—­to discuss it now.  There is nothing to be said, as far as I am concerned.  It is better not to discuss it; we shall not agree.  That Magsie could come here and talk to you surprises me.  I naturally don’t know what she said, or what impression she gave you.  I would only remind you that she is young—­and unhappy.”  He glanced at the morning paper he carried in his hand with an air of casual interest, and added in a moderate undertone, “It’s an unhappy business!”

Rachael stood as if she had been shot through the heart—­ motionless, dumb.  She felt the inward physical convulsion that might have followed an actual shot.  Her heart seemed to be struggling under a choking flood, and black circles moved before her eyes.

Watching her, Warren presently began to enlarge upon the subject.  His tone was that of frank and unashamed, if regretful, narrative.  Rachael perceived, with utter stupefaction, that although he was sorry, and even angry at being drawn into this talk, he was far from being confused or ashamed.

“I am sorry for this, Rachael,” he began in the logical tone she knew so well.  “I think, frankly, that Magsie made a mistake in coming to you.  The situation isn’t of my making.  Magsie, being a woman, being impulsive and impatient, has taken the law into her own hands.”  He shrugged.  “She may have been wise, or unwise, I can’t tell!”

He paused, but Rachael did not speak or stir.

Warren had rolled up the paper, and now, in his pacing, reaching the end of the room, he turned, and, thrusting it into his armpit, came back with folded arms.

“Now that this thing has come up,” he said in a practical tone, “it is a great satisfaction to me to realize how reasonable a woman you are.  I want you to know just how this whole thing happened.  Magsie has always been a most attractive girl to me.  I remember her in Paris, years ago, young, and with a pretty little way of turning her head, and effective eyes.”

“I know all this, Warren!” Rachael said wearily.

“I know you do.  But let me recapitulate it,” he said, resuming in a businesslike voice:  “When I met her at Hoyt’s wedding I knew right away that we had a personality to deal with—­something rare!  I remember thinking then that it would be interesting to see whom she cared for, what that volcanic little heart would be in love—­ Time went on; we saw more of her.  I met her, now and then, we had the theatricals, and the California trip.  One day, that fall, in the Park, I took her for a drive, innocently enough, nothing prearranged.  And I remember asking if any lucky man had made an impression upon her.”

Warren smiled, his eyes absent.  Rachael’s look of superb scorn was wasted.