Being no fool, he accepted the changed attitude with great readiness, devoting himself to his work and his mother, and pleasantly conscious that he was a success.  He let women alone, except where music and art, golf and the club theatricals were the topic of interest, and, consequently, had come to his fortieth year with some little awe and diffidence still left for them in his secret heart.  Rachael had told him, not long ago, that she believed he took no interest in women older than fourteen and younger than fifty, and there was some truth in the charge.  But he was conscious to-night of taking a distinct interest in her as he sat down beside her fire.

He had never seen her so beautiful, he thought.  She had dressed so hastily, so carelessly, that an utter simplicity enhanced the natural charm.  Her dark hair was simply massed, her gown was devoid of ornament, her hands bare, except for her wedding-ring.  On her earnest, exquisite face the occasion had stamped a certain soberness, she was neither hostess nor guest to-night; just a heartsick wife under the shadow of anger and shame.

“Well, what is it to-night?” Warren Gregory asked kindly.

“Oh, the same old thing, Greg.  The Berry Stokes’ dinner, you know!”

“Shame!” the doctor said warmly, touched by her obvious depression.  “I’ll go up.  I can give him some pills.  But you know, he can’t keep this up forever, Rachael.  He’s killing himself!”

In her sensitive mood the mildly reproachful tone was too much.  Rachael’s breast rose, her eyes brightened angrily.

“Perhaps you’ll tell me what more I can do, Greg!”

He looked at her in surprise; the shell of Mrs. Breckenridge’s cool reserve was not often pierced.

“My dear girl—­” he stammered.  “Why, Rachael—!”

For battling with a moment of emotion she had flung her beautiful head back against the brilliant cretonne of the chair, her eyes closed, her hands grasping the chair-arms.  A tear slipped from under her lids.

“I didn’t for one second mean—­” he began again uncomfortably.

Suddenly she straightened herself in her chair, and opened her eyes widely.  He saw her lovely breast, under its filmy black chiffon, rise stormily.  Her voice was rich with protest.

“No, you didn’t mean anything, Greg, nobody means anything!  Nobody is anything but sorry for me:  you, Billy, Elinor, the woman who expected us at dinner to-night, the servants at the club!” she said hotly.  “Nobody blames me, and yet every one wonders how it happens!  Nobody thinks it anything but a little amusing, a little shocking.  I am to write the notes, and make the excuses, and be shamed—­and shamed—­shamed—­”

Her voice broke.  She rose to her feet, and rested an elbow on the mantel, and stared moodily at the fire.  There was a silence.

“Rachael, I’m sorry!” Gregory said presently, impulsively.

Instantly her April smile rewarded him.