“It’s a very serious thing,” the other assented placidly.  “But Clarence has no one but himself to blame.”

“Only Clarence won’t be blamed, my dear; men never are!” Mrs. Haviland suggested unkindly.  Rachael reddened.

“I don’t care what they say or whom they blame!” she answered proudly.

“Ah, well, my dear, we aren’t any of us really indifferent to criticism,” the older woman said, watching closely the effect of her words.  “People are censorious—­it’s too bad, it’s a pity—­but there you are.  ’There must have been something we didn’t understand,’ they say, ‘there must be another man!’”

Rachael raised her head a little, and managed a smile.

“That’s what they say,” Mrs. Haviland went on, mildly triumphant.  “And no matter how brave or how independent a woman is, she doesn’t like that.”  There came to the speaker suddenly, under her smooth flow of words, a sickening shock of realization:  it was of Rachael and Clarence she was speaking, her nearest relatives; it was one of the bulwarks of her world that was threatened!  Without her knowledge her tone became less sure and more sincere.  “For God’s sake, think what you are doing, dear,” she said pleadingly; “think of Carol and of us all!  Don’t drag us all through the papers again!  I know what Clarence is, poor wretched boy; he’s always had too much money, he’s always had his own way.  I know what you put up with week in and week out—­”

Mrs. Haviland’s usual attitude of assured superiority never impressed her sister-in-law.  Her pompous magnificence was a source of unmitigated amusement to Rachael.  But now the older woman’s emotion had carried her on to genuine and honest expression in spite of herself, and listening, Rachael found herself curiously stirred.  She looked down, conscious of a sudden melting in her heart, a thickening in her throat.

“I’ve always been so fond of you, Rachael,” Florence went on.  “I’ve always stood your friend—­you know that—­”

“I know,” Rachael said huskily, her lashes dropped.

“Long before I knew how much you would be liked, Rachael, and what a fuss people were going to make over you, I made you welcome,” continued Florence simply, with tears in her eyes.  “I thanked God that Clarence had married a good woman, and that Carol would have a refined and a—­I may say a Christian home.  Isn’t that true?”

“I know,” Rachael said again with an effort, as she paused.

“Then think it over,” besought the other woman eagerly.  “Think that Carol will marry, and that Clarence—­” Her ardent tone dropped suddenly.  There was a moment’s pause.  Then she added dryly, “How do, dear?”

“How do, Tante Firenze!” said Carol, who had come abruptly into the, room.  “How are the girls?  Say, listen!  Is Isabelle going to the Bowditches’?”