“I’m getting pretty tired of it,” said Rachael moodily.

Mrs. Haviland watched the downcast beautiful face opposite her with a sense of growing alarm.

“My dear,” she said impressively, “of course it’s hard for you; we all know that.  But just at this time, Rachael, it would be absolutely fatal to have any open break with Clarence—­”

Rachael flung up her head impatiently, then dropped her face in her hands.

“I don’t want any open break,” she muttered.

“You do?  Oh, you don’t?” Mrs. Haviland questioned anxiously.  “No, of course you don’t.  He’s not himself now, for several reasons.  For one—­and that’s what I specially came to speak to you about—­ for one thing, he’s terribly worried about Carol.  Carol,” repeated Mrs. Haviland significantly, “and Joe Pickering.”

Rachael raised sombre eyes, but did not speak.

“Is Carol here?” her aunt asked delicately.

“Dressing,” Rachael answered briefly.

“Do you realize,” Mrs. Haviland said, “that everyone is beginning to talk?”

“Perfectly,” Rachael admitted.  “But what do you expect me to do?”

“Something must be done,” said the other woman firmly.

“By whom?” Rachael countered lightly.

“Well—­by Clarence, I suppose,” Mrs. Haviland suggested discontentedly.

“Clarence!” Rachael’s tone was but a scornful breath.  Her glance toward the ceiling evoked more clearly than any words a vision of Clarence’s condition at the moment.

“Well, I suppose he can’t do anything just now, anyway,” his sister conceded ruefully.  “Can’t you—­couldn’t you talk to her, Rachael?”

“Talk to her?” Mrs. Breckenridge smiled at some memory.  “My dear Florence, you don’t suppose I haven’t talked to her!”

“Well, I suppose of course you have,” Mrs. Haviland said hastily.  “But my dear, it’s dreadful!  People are beginning to ask questions; a reporter—­we don’t know who he was—­telephoned Gardner.  Of course Gardner hung up—­”

“I can say no more than I have said,” Rachael observed thoughtfully.  “What authority have I?  Clarence could influence her, I think, but she lies simply and flatly to Clarence.”

Mrs. Haviland winced at the ugly word.

“Joe drinks,” Rachael went on, “but he doesn’t drink as much as her adored Daddy does.  Joe is thirty-nine and Billy is seventeen—­ well, that’s not his fault.  Joe is divorced—­well, but Carol’s mother is living, and Clarence’s second wife isn’t exactly ostracised by society!  A clergyman of your own church married Clarence and me—­” The little scornful twist of the beautiful mouth stung a church woman conscious of personal integrity, and Mrs. Haviland said: 

“A great many of them won’t!  The church is going to take a stand in the matter.  The bishops are considering a canon. ...”

Mrs. Breckenridge shrugged her shoulders indifferently.  Theology did not interest her.