e through the eyes of a
worldly-minded old husband, and it had made a difference.

At dinner that night Dulcie was exquisite in orchid tulle with a string
of pearls that hung to her knees. Her hair was like ripe corn, waved and
parted on the side with a girlish knot behind. Her skin was as fresh as
a baby's. Mary was in black net. She had been very busy helping the
cook, and she had had little time to spend on her hair. She looked ten
years older than Dulcie, and her mind was absolutely on the dinner. The
dinner was really very good. Mills had been extremely anxious about it.
He had called up Mary from down-town to tell her that he was bringing
home fresh asparagus. He wanted it served as an extra course with
Hollandaise sauce. Mary protested, but gave in. It was the Hollandaise
sauce that had kept her from curling her hair.

There were orchids for a centerpiece--in harmony with Dulcie's gown. In
fact, the whole dinner seemed keyed up to Dulcie. The guests were for
the most part literary folk, to whom Mills wanted to display his Egeria.
After dinner Dulcie sang for them. She had set to music the words of one
of Mills' poems, and she was much applauded.

After everybody had gone Mary went to bed with a headache. She was glad
that it was Saturday, for Sunday promised a rest. She decided to send
the children over to her mother and to have a quiet day with Mills. She
wouldn't even go to church in the morning. There was an afternoon
service; perhaps she and Mills might go together.

But Mills had other plans. He walked as far as the church door with
Mary, and left her there. Mary wasn't sorry to be left; her headache had
returned, and she was glad to sit alone in the peaceful dimness. But the
pain proved finally too much for her, so she slipped out quietly and
went home.

Clouds had risen, and she hurried before the shower. It was a real April
shower, wind with a rush and a silver downpour. Mary, coming into the
dark living-room, threw herself on the couch in a far corner and drew a
rug over her. The couch was backed up against a table which held a lamp
and a row of books. Mary had a certain feeling of content in the way the
furniture seemed to shut her in. There was no sound but the splashing of
rain against the windows.

She fell asleep at last, and waked to find that Mills and Dulcie had
come in. No lights were on; the room was in twilight dimness.

Mills had met Dulcie at her front door. "How dear of you to come,"