But even while he nodded Warren Gregory was resolving, in his soul, that he must never see Magsie Clay again.  His world was strange and alarming; was falling to pieces about him.  He was thirsting for Rachael:  her voice, her reproaches, her forgiveness.  In seven minutes he would be at home talking to his wife—­

Dennison reported, with an impassive face, that Mrs. Gregory had left two hours ago with the children.  He believed that they were gone to the Long Island house, sir.  Warren, stupefied, went slowly upstairs to have the news confirmed by Pauline.  Mrs. Gregory had taken Mary and Millie, sir.  And there was a note.

Of course there was a note.  To emotion like Rachael’s emotion silence was the only unthinkable thing.  She had planned a dozen notes, written perhaps five.  The one she left was brief: 

My dear Warren:  I am leaving with the children for Clark’s Hills.  You will know best what steps to take in the matter of the freedom you desire.  I will cooperate in any way.  I have written Magsie that I will not contest your divorce.  If for any reason you come to Clark’s Hills, I will of course be obliged to see you.  I ask you not to come.  Please spare me another such talk as ours this morning.  I have plenty of money.

Always faithfully, R. G.

Warren read it, and stood in the middle of her bedroom with the sheet crushed in his hand.  Pauline had put the empty room in order—­in terrible and desolate order.  Usually there were flowers in the jars and glass bowls, a doll’s chair by the bed, and a woolly animal seated in the chair; a dainty litter of lace scattered on Rachael’s sewing-table.  Usually she was there when he came in tired, to look up beautiful and concerned:  “Something to eat, dear, or are you going to lie down?”

Standing here with the note that ended it all in his hand, he wondered if he was the same man who had so often met that inquiry with an impatient:  “Just please don’t bother me, dear!” Who had met the succeeding question with, “I don’t know whether I shall dine here or not!”

It was half-past three.  In an hour he would see Magsie.

In that hour Magsie had received Rachael’s note, and her heart sang.  For the first time, in what she would have described as this “funny, mixed-up business,” she began seriously to contemplate her elevation to the dignity of Warren Gregory’s wife.  Rachael’s note was capable of only one interpretation:  she would no longer stand in their way.  She was taking the boys to the country, and had given Warren the definite assurance of her agreement to his divorce.  If necessary, on condition that her claim to the children was granted, she would establish her residence in some Western city, and proceed with the legal steps from there.

Magsie was frightened, excited, and thrilled all at once.  She felt as if she had set some enormous machinery in motion, and was not quite sure of how it might be controlled.  But on the whole, complacency underlay all other emotions.  She was going to be married to the richest and nicest and most important man of her acquaintance!