Dismissing him from her councils, Rachael thought of Florence Haviland, the good and kind-hearted and capable matron who was Clarence’s sister and only near relative.  She and Florence had always been good friends, had often discussed Clarence of late.  What sort of advice would Florence’s forty-five years be apt to give to Rachael’s twenty-eight?  “Don’t be so absurd, Rachael, half the men in our set drink as much as Clarence does.  Don’t jump from the frying-pan into the fire.  Remember Elsie Rowland and Marian Cowles when you talk so lightly of divorce!”

That would be Florence’s probable attitude.  Still, it was a bracing attitude, heartily positive, like everything Florence did and said.  And Florence was above everything else a church member, a prominent Christian in her self-sacrificing wifehood and motherhood, her social and charitable and civic work.  She might be unflattering, but she would be right.  Rachael’s last conscious thought, as she went off to sleep, was that she would take the earliest possible moment to extract a verdict from Florence,

She went into her husband’s room at ten o’clock the next morning to find Billy radiantly presiding over a loaded breakfast tray, and the invalid, pale and pasty, and with no particular interest in food evinced by the twitching muscles of his face, nevertheless neatly brushed and shaved, propped up in pillows, and making a visible effort to appear convalescent.

“How are you this morning?” Rachael asked perfunctorily, with her quick glance moving from the books on the table to the wood fire burning lazily behind brass firedogs.  Everything was in perfect order, Helda’s touch visible everywhere.

“Fine,” Clarence answered, also perfunctorily.  His coffee was untouched, and the cigarette in his long holder had gone out, but Billy was disposing of eggs, toast, bacon, and cream with youthful zest.  Clarence’s hot, sick gaze rested almost with hostility upon his wife’s cool beauty; in a gray linen gown, with a transparent white ruffle turned back from her white throat, she looked as fresh as the fresh spring morning.

“Headache?” said the nicely modulated, indifferent voice.

To this solicitude Clarence made no answer.  A dark, ugly look came into his face, and he turned his eyes sullenly and wearily away.

“How was the Chase dinner, Bill?” pursued the cheerful visitor, unabashed.

“Same old thing,” Carol answered briefly.

“You’re not up to the Perrys’ lunch to-day, are you, Clancy?”

“Oh, my God, no!” burst from the sufferer.

“Well, I’ll telephone them.  If Florence comes in this morning I’m going to say you’re asleep, so keep quiet up here.  Do you want to see Greg again?”

“No, I don’t!” said Clarence, with unexpected vigor.  “Steer him off if you can.  Preaching at me last night as if he’d never touched anything stronger than malted milk!”

“I don’t imagine I’ll have much trouble steering him off,” Rachael said coldly.  “His Sundays are pretty well occupied without—­sick calls!”