Magsie was a rather simple little soul under her casing of Parisian veneer, and was often innocently surprised at the potency of her own charm.  That men, big men and wise men, were inclined to take her artful artlessness at its surface value was a continual revelation to her.  Like Rachael, she had gone to bed the night before in a profoundly thoughtful frame of mind, a little apprehensive as to Warren’s view of her call, and uneasy as to the state in which she had left his wife.  But, unlike Rachael, Magsie had not been wakeful long.  The consideration of other people’s attitudes never troubled her for more than a few consecutive minutes.  She had been genuinely stirred by her talk that afternoon, and was honestly determined to become Mrs. Warren Gregory; but these feelings did not prevent her from looking back, with thrilled complacence, to the scene in Rachael’s sitting-room, and from remembering that it was a dramatic and heroic thing for a slender, pretty girl in white to go to a man’s wife and plead for her love.  “No harm done, anyway!” Magsie had reflected drowsily, drifting off to sleep; and she had awakened conscious of no emotion stronger than a mild trepidation at the possibility of Warren’s wrath.

Dainty and sweet, she came to meet him halfway, and now sat congratulating herself that he was soothed, fed, and placidly smoking before their conversation reached deep channels.

“Greg, dear, I’ve got a horrible confession to make!” began Magsie when this propitious moment arrived.

“You mean your call on Rachael?” he asked quickly, the shadow coming back to his eyes.  “Why did you do it?”

Magsie was conscious of being frightened.

“Was she surprised, Greg?”

“I don’t know that she was surprised.  Of course she was angry.”

“Well,” Magsie said, widening her childish eyes, “didn’t you expect her to be angry?”

“I didn’t expect her to take any attitude whatever,” Warren said with a look half puzzled and half reproving.

“Greg!” Magsie was quite honestly astonished.  “What did you expect her to do?  Give you a divorce without any feeling whatever?”

There was no misunderstanding her.  For a full minute Warren stared at her in silence.  In that minute he remembered some of his recent talks with Magsie, some of his notes and presents, he remembered the plan that involved a desert island, sea-bathing, moonlight, and solitude.

“I think, if you had been listening to us,” Magsie went on, as he did not answer, “you could not have objected to one word I said!  And Rachael was lovely, Greg.  She told me she would not contest it—­”

“She told you that?”

“Well, she said several times that it must be as you decide.”  Magsie dimpled demurely.  “And I was—­nice, too!” she asserted youthfully.  “I didn’t tell her about this—­and this!” and with one movement of her pretty hand Magsie indicated the big emerald on her ring finger and the heavy bracelet of mesh gold about her wrist.  Suddenly her face brightened, and with an eager movement she leaned across the narrow table, and caught his hand in both her own.  “Ah, Greg,” she said tenderly, “does it seem true, that after all these months of talking, and hoping, you and I are going to belong to each other?”