She was afraid of the crippled little gentlewoman in the big chair, and Warren Gregory was afraid, too.  Some mysterious element in her regard for them made luncheon an ordeal for them both, although Billy’s healthy young eyes saw only an old woman, impotent and alone; the maids were respectful and pitying, and young Charles Gregory, who joined them at luncheon, Was obviously unimpressed by his grandmother’s power, but was smitten red and inarticulate at the first glimpse of Billy.

This youth, after silently disposing of several courses, finally asked in a husky voice for Miss Charlotte Haviland, and relapsed into silence again.  Billy flirted youthfully with her host, Rachael devoted herself to the old lady.

She had always been happy here, a marked favorite with old Mrs. Gregory to whom her audacious nonsense had always seemed a great delight before.  But to-day she was conscious of a change, she could not control the conversation with her usual sure touch, she floundered and contradicted herself like a schoolgirl.  One of her brilliant stories fell rather flat because its humor was largely supplied by an intoxicated man—­“of course it was dreadful, but then it was funny, too!” Rachael finished lamely.  Another flashing account won from the old hostess the single words “On Sunday?”

“Well, yes.  It was on Sunday.  I am afraid we are absolute pagans; we don’t always remember to go to church, by any means!” Rachael began to feel that a cloud of midges were buzzing about her face.  Every topic led her deeper into the quicksand.  There was a definite touch of resentment under the gracious manner in which she presently said her good-bye, and they were no sooner in the motor car than she exclaimed to Billy: 

“Didn’t Mrs. Gregory seem horribly cross to you to-day?  She made me feel as if I’d broken all the Commandments and was dancing on the pieces!”

“What do you know about Charles asking for Charlotte?” was Billy’s only answer.  “Isn’t he just the sort of mutt who would ask for Charlotte!”

“Isn’t she quite lovely?” said Mrs. Gregory from over the fleecy yarn she was knitting, when the guests had gone.

“Carol?” the doctor countered.

“Yes, Carol, too.  But I was thinking of Mrs. Breckenridge.  Do you see her very often, James?”

“Quite a bit.  Do you mind my smoking?”

“I often wonder,” pursued the old lady innocently, “what such a sweet, gay, lovely girl could see in a fellow like poor Clarence Breckenridge!”

“Great marvel she doesn’t throw him over!” Warren said casually.

“It distresses me to hear you talk so recklessly, my son,” Mrs. Gregory said after a brief pause,

“Lord, Mother,” her son presently observed impatiently, “is it reasonable to expect that because a girl like that makes a mistake when she is twenty or twenty-one, that she shall pay for it for the rest of her life?”

“Unfortunately, we are not left in any doubt about it,” the old lady said dryly.  And as Warren was silent she went on with quavering vigor:  “It is not for us to judge her husband’s infirmities.  She is his wife.”