“I want to tell you something, Florence,” Rachael said to her sister-in-law when she was stretched upon the wide couch in Florence’s room, watching with the placidity of a good baby that lady’s process of dressing for an afternoon of bridge, or rather the operations with cold cream, rubber face brush, hair tonic, eyebrow stick, powder, rouge, and lip paste that preceded the process of dressing.  Mrs. Haviland, even with this assistance, would never be beautiful; in justice it must be admitted that she never thought herself beautiful.  But she thought rouge and powder and paste improved her appearance, and if through fatigue or haste she was ever led to omit any or all of these embellishments, she presented herself to the eyes of her family and friends with a genuine sensation of guilt.  Perhaps three hours out of all her days were spent in some such occupation; between bathing, manicuring, hair-dressing, and intervals with her dressmaker and her corset woman it is improbable that the subject of her appearance was long out of the lady’s mind.  Yet she was not vain, nor was she particularly well satisfied with herself when it was done.  That about one-fifth of her waking time—­something more than two months out of the year—­was spent in an unprofitable effort to make herself, not beautiful nor attractive, but something only a little nearer than was natural to a vague standard of beauty and attractiveness, never occurred, and never would occur, to Florence Haviland.

“What is it?” she asked now sharply, pausing with one eyebrow beautifully pencilled and the other less definite than ever by contrast.

“I don’t suppose it will surprise you to hear that Clarence and I have decided to try a change,” Rachael said slowly.

“How do you mean a change?” the other woman said, instantly alert and suspicious.

“The usual thing,” Rachael smiled.

“What madness has got hold of that boy now?” his sister exclaimed aghast.

“It’s not entirely Clarence,” Rachael explained with a touch of pride.

“Well, then, you’re mad!” the older woman said shortly.

“Not necessarily, my dear,” Rachael answered, resolutely serene.

“Go talk to someone who’s been through it,” Florence warned her.  “You don’t know what it is!  It’s bad enough for him, but it’s simple suicide for you!”

“Well, I wanted you to hear it from me,” Rachael submitted mildly.

“Do you mean to say you’ve decided, seriously, to do it?”

“Very seriously, I assure you!”

“How do you propose to do it?” Florence asked after a pause, during which she stared with growing discomfort at her sister-in-law.

“The way other people do it,” Rachael said with assumed lightness.  “Clarence agrees.  There will be evidence.”

Mrs. Haviland flushed.

“You think that’s fair to Clarence?” she asked presently.

“I think that in any question of fairness between Clarence and me the balance is decidedly in my favor!” Rachael said crisply.  “Personally, I shall have nothing to do with it, and Clarence very little.  Charlie Sturgis will represent me.  I suppose Coates and Crandall will take care of Clarence—­I don’t know.  That’s all there is to it!”