Throwing a wrap over her evening gown, Stephanie hurried out and into Pendleton's car, which was standing at the curb. He sprang after, opened the throttle and they whirled away.

"How long will it take to get to the Hospital?" she asked.

"About fifteen minutes—if we are not held up by traffic when we come off the Boulevard."

"I suppose I ought not to feel indifferent at such a time," she said presently. "But I do—and I won't hide that I do. I'll try to meet what the occasion demands but nothing more. If he still wants me, I'll go to him. If he is conscious and hasn't asked for me again, I'll come away. It will be a relief to come away. I have no longer any duty to him. At least I feel that I haven't—and so why pretend the one or do the other?"

"Would you rather not go?" he asked, slowing down.

"I would much rather not go," she replied—"but I'm going just because I'm not sure of my duty in the matter. I swore at our marriage to love, honor and cherish him. I don't love him—I think I never honored him—I'm not sure that it will do any good for me to cherish him—but I'll try to be kind while his life is in danger—when the danger has passed, the cherishing shall cease." She stole a look at the man beside. "A queer philosophy, you think doubtless—and possibly it is; but toward some few people, my husband among them, I have as much feeling as a piece of marble—rather less indeed. Don't try to understand me, Montague—you can't; I don't understand myself."

She was overwrought, he saw. This sudden call to confront a condition such as she had never anticipated—the distressing fact that Lorraine, injured maybe unto death, had asked for her—had stretched her nerves to attenuation.

It was not for him to tell her what she should do. In truth, he did not know. The one thing that made it difficult was Lorraine's request. If it were not for that he would not have hesitated. But it is hard to refuse a dying man—or one who may be dying.

"Steady yourself, Stephanie!" he said, as the car ran in under the porte cochere of the Hospital.

"I am steadied," she answered. "I'll be all right when we enter—I'm not going to collapse or shriek or make a scene, you may be sure."

He rang the bell, gave the name, and they passed into the reception-room.

In a moment a white uniformed nurse entered—a woman of middle age, quiet and business-like.

"Mrs. Lorraine?" she asked.

"Yes," Stephanie answered.

"I am Mrs. Bangs, the head nurse, Mrs. Lorraine. Your husband has not regained consciousness, I am sorry to say. Doctor Wilton has been advised of your arrival and he'll see you just as soon as possible. Will you come into the resident physician's office and wait? It will be only a moment, I'm sure."

They crossed the corridor, were shown into the office, and the nurse went about her duties.

There is not much sentiment in a hospital attendant—at least toward those not patients—and the patients themselves are but cases in the abstract.

Stephanie looked at Pendleton and smiled.

"You see—I'm steady," she said, holding up her hand. "A trifle too steady for an injured man's wife, I fear—though, I suppose, they all know the state of our—affairs."

"Every one knows it—if they've read the newspapers," Pendleton returned.

"And it's safe to assume that they have; and that they believed all they read as well—and then some. It's a common failing. I'd do the same about someone else, I reckon—if it happened to interest me."

"There is just the difference—it wouldn't interest you, nor me, nor any right-thinking person."

"Then the right-thinking persons are very scarce in this world!" she smiled.

"I shouldn't call them scarce," he replied—"very much in the minority would be better."

Dr. Wilton entered the room at that moment—the rubber-soled shoes having deadened his steps in the corridor. His was one of the old families, and so he was no stranger to Stephanie or to Pendleton. He was familiar with the peculiar situation—and, man like, sympathized with Stephanie. He responded to the look of inquiry in her eyes before she had time to ask.

"Your husband, Mrs. Lorraine, is resting quietly. The concussion is slight—and unless something develops internally, which we can't yet tell, he will likely recover. He has had four ribs broken, has sustained numerous cuts and bruises, and has lost much blood—but these are merely temporary in their effects."

"Has he recovered consciousness?" Stephanie asked.

"At brief intervals—but not for any length of time."

"Is there any indication that he is hurt internally?"

"It is too early to know certainly; though the character of the accident and the wounds make it very possible. There was a slight hemorrhage, but that has ceased."

It was as if he were discussing the case with an ordinary visitor or a reporter. He already knew she was not likely to be particularly interested, but the impersonal manner in which she asked and received his account of her husband's accident—certainly grievous and possibly fatal—was most indicative. He found himself wondering why she had taken the trouble to come at all.

And she read something of what he thought, for she remarked, without preliminary:

"The Hospital said over the telephone that he had asked for me when he was first brought in—and I came because of that. Has he asked again?"

"I think not, Mrs. Lorraine—nor for any one."

"May I see him?"

The doctor hesitated. "You may—if you very much wish—but we should prefer not."

"Can I do him any good by seeing him?"

"Not a particle. He is, pardon me, much better as it is—with the surgeons and nurses. In such cases, the presence even of one nearly connected is frequently a deterrent, and excites the patient unduly."

"I can do nothing then?" she persisted.

"Absolutely nothing," he assured her.

"And in event of his needing me?"

"We will telephone you."

"You think I should not wait?"

"I do," he said. "It is quite unnecessary. At present, Mrs. Lorraine, your husband is in no immediate danger."

Either Harry had revoked his request, or Doctor Wilton was making it easy for her.—At all events, she could depart with the equanimity of a duty done.

"Then I will go home—depending on being advised on the instant, if I am needed," she said with the most bewitching smile and holding out her hand.

The doctor took it in a friendly grasp.

"I think that is best, Mrs. Lorraine," he replied.

"I suppose you know nothing of the details of the accident?" she asked.

"No—we leave them to the newspapers and the ambulance chasers," he smiled. "Our record begins with Mr. Lorraine's entry here."

"I will depend then upon the Hospital notifying me if I am needed," she repeated, and with another smile and a nod she went out.

"Thank heavens!" she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, when they were once more in the car and turned toward her home. "I've done as much as the circumstances warrant—at least, to my mind. The next move is up to him and the Hospital."

"You've done all that anyone could demand," he said. "More than was necessary, I think."

"Which being the case, I'm going to forget it, except that twice a day, until he is out of danger, I shall inquire for him by telephone. Now let us talk of something else."

It was on the fourth day thereafter that Doctor Wilton himself called Stephanie on the telephone.

"Mr. Lorraine has asked for you," he informed her. "He knows that you were here the night of the accident and it pleased him greatly. Will you come some time this morning, if it is convenient?"

"It is not very convenient," Stephanie responded; "I am going out of town—to Criss-Cross—this afternoon for a couple of days, but I'll stop in for a moment. I can't well break the appointment at this late moment."

"Very well," said he. "I'll just tell him I have concluded it is unwise for him to see you for a day or so."

She drummed a moment on the table.

"No, I will come," she decided—"at eleven thirty—will you please see that I am admitted promptly?"

And at eleven thirty she was there and Doctor Wilton received her.

"The nurse will remain, I suppose," she remarked, as they reached the door of Lorraine's room.

He understood.

"If you do not object," he replied. "It would not be well for her to leave her patient—in his present condition."

Lorraine glanced up as the door opened—and when he recognized his wife he smiled and put out his hand.

"I'm glad to see you, dear," he said.

"I'm glad to see you so much better," she replied, taking his hand, but not offering to kiss him. "You had a narrow escape!"

"Rather close call," he admitted.

The doctor, after a word to the nurse, had gone out—and the nurse remained. Lorraine's eyes glanced at her impatiently. She was occupied with the chart.

"You're ever so much stronger—aren't you?" said Stephanie, inanely.

"I suppose so—I think I am.... They told me of your being here the evening I was injured. It was very good of you to come, Stephanie."

"I came because they told me you had asked for me," said she quietly.

"I did—I thought I was going to die; and I wanted to see you again—just to—apologize."

"Don't think of that," she replied hastily. "You're not going to die."

"They say I'll probably pull through now—my head is all right—but I'm pretty weak."

"Of course, you're weak," she echoed. "Who wouldn't be weak with all that you've endured."

She simply did not know what to say to him. The last spark of affection was in ashes—cold ashes—else would it have been warmed, at least a trifle, by the sight of him lying there, injured and helpless.

He smiled faintly—and the nurse came to the rescue. She looked at Mrs. Lorraine meaningly. Stephanie nodded.

"Your nurse intimates that it is time for me to go," she remarked. "And the nurse is in command." She reached down and took his hand. "Good bye!" she said.

"You will come again!" he questioned.

"Certainly, whenever you wish—and the nurse lets me."

He smiled—and she, with an answering smile, went quietly out.

He closed his eyes and lay quite still. The nurse came to the bed; played with gentle fingers a moment upon his wrist, and went softly away.

It was pretty hopeless, he reflected, pretty hopeless! Stephanie cared no more for him than for an utter stranger—probably less. She had come in response to his request, but she had let him know that it was because he had asked for her and not of her own volition. And when she did come, the talk had been the veriest of inanities; and the nurse had remained in the room the entire time—at Stephanie's behest he had little doubt. Her "whenever you wish," had really meant, "but don't wish".... He did not see why she had taken the trouble to come at all, since he was nothing to her—why she had not simply answered that she would not come, that she no longer recognized any obligation toward him. Everyone knew the facts of the last two years so why should she not be candid, even brutally so? This visit was nothing—nothing but ashes to them both—nothing but the proof that the rupture was beyond repair. And he loved her still!—loved her as in the days of courtship, though it had been obscured by the hate and injury of the recent past. If he could not affect her now, even so far as to win a look of regard, his case was forlorn. If his condition would not melt even a little the ice of her reserve, there was small hope. But he would hope!—would hope! It was not her fault—it was Amherst's. He acquitted her—she was a wronged woman—he was a wronged husband! Amherst was the villain! Amherst was——

There was a light touch on his shoulder. He opened his eyes—the nurse was standing beside him, a glass of orange juice in her hand, a smile on her face.

"It is time to take your nourishment," she said.

For a moment he was tempted to refuse—but she smiled again, very sweetly; and put the glass to his lips.

"Now, try to relax and sleep a while," she suggested.

"Is that an order?" he said faintly.

"An order," she answered, dropping her hand on his forehead and smoothing it with deft touch.

He smiled up at her,—and closed his eyes—and presently he slept.

* * * * * * *

Stephanie, when she left the Hospital, went on to the shopping district.

It was the first time she had been down town since the day before Lorraine's accident—and she very quickly noticed the difference in the attitude of many that she knew and met. There was a more manifest cordiality, slight in some cases, more open in others, but unmistakable nevertheless. More people looked at her in a friendly way, and would have spoken had she given them the chance. But she never saw them, or looked right through them—depending upon whether hitherto they had been negative or positive in their hostility. From all those who had spoken heretofore, she accepted the additional smile or word of greeting—from all those with whom it was an initial effort she declined the overtures.

Mrs. Postlewaite passed down the aisle just as Stephanie was turning away from the glove counter, and the grande dame relaxed sufficiently to glance at her in a personal way and to give her the chance to return the glance—her manner even indicating that, if Stephanie were brave enough to speak, she might condescend to acknowledge it with the faintest nod. It was plainly a look of permission—but Stephanie never looked; though taking due care to let Mrs. Postlewaite know that she saw. And the ancient lady's face congealed into impassivity—and they went their respective ways.

She knew, of course, what had caused the change. It had become known that she had visited her husband at his request—and they assumed a reconciliation was likely to follow.

She finished her shopping and went out to her car—to find it with a deflated tire and the driver just beginning the repair. She glanced at the clock on the dash. It was after one. She was much later than she thought.

"Is that the correct time?" she asked the man.

"Yes, Mrs. Lorraine!" said he, touching his cap but without raising his eyes from the wheel.

It would be too late to go home for luncheon, by the time the repair was made, so she turned back into the department store and took the elevator to the dining room on the top floor.

The place was crowded—the head waiter and the captains at the far end of the room, as usual. There was no empty table in sight, and Stephanie paused at the door.

Instantly the eyes of a hundred women focussed on her. At the same time Marcia Emerson, sitting some distance down the room, saw her and getting up hastily came forward.

"Won't you join me at my table, Mrs. Lorraine?" she asked. "It's for two and I'm alone."

It so happened that Stephanie, since her return, had not encountered Miss Emerson, therefore there could be no memory of glances withheld nor of greetings lacking. It was very polite in her and she could not well refuse, though she would have been better satisfied had Marcia not done it.

"I shall be glad to join you—you're very kind," she answered.

An audible buzz went up as they passed down the aisle to their table.

Some who were not acquainted with her were simply curious to see the noted Mrs. Lorraine—others, who knew both well were startled at the one's temerity and the other's acquiescence. Why Marcia Emerson should endanger her social position, none too strong with the powers that be, was more than they could understand. Never independent themselves, they could not appreciate intrepidity in another. In such a case, they trimmed their sails to the leader's wind and were content to remain under convoy. So far as they were aware, the wind had not veered with any strength to Mrs. Lorraine's quarter. And even though some had heard of the prospective reconciliation, they waited to take their cue from one of those powerful enough to indicate an assured course of action.

"I assume you know how rash you are in inviting me to your own table, and in coming the length of the room to do it," she remarked. "I am distinctly persona non grata at present."

"You're not to me," said Marcia heartily. "I don't follow Mrs. Postlewaite and her clique. I do as I wish, and where I wish it. Your affairs are your own—they concern only those directly involved. I'm not involved, therefore it is an unwarrantable impertinence for me to interfere in the slightest—or to judge. I've been out of town for the past three weeks is why I've not called—which, I hope, you will pardon. I didn't know you intimately before you went away, but if you'll permit it we will start in just where we left off."

"It may hurt you with the conservatives," Stephanie warned.

Miss Emerson shrugged her shoulders. "And that might injure my standing in Society, since I've not a too secure footing as it is. Let it, I'll take my chance as it pleases me to take it, not as some one else would make me take it. I'm responsible for my friendships, and I'm not going to have anyone tell me who they shall be—or who they mustn't be. Imagine a man submitting to any such dictation!"

"I can't imagine it!" smiled Stephanie. "He would laugh in their faces—or else tell them a few truths in very plain English."

"Exactly! We women are silly fools in the way we submit to being controlled. We haven't any independence even in our clothes. We let a few shoddy French modistes, and their demi-mondaine assistants at the Longchamps races, prescribe what we shall wear, and we follow with the abject servility of slaves—never pausing to think whether the fashions are becoming, or hideous, or grotesque. And we change them every three months—so the tailors and dressmakers can overcharge us four times a year. A man! I should like to see the tailors who had the hardihood to try it. They make his clothes as he wants them, and they make them the same way and the same cut year after year. A man can wear out his clothes, and be in fashion until they're worn out if it takes five years. His hats are the same style year after year, his shoes are the same last, his collars and neckties vary practically not at all. There is something fine about a man's supreme indifference; making the tradesmen do as he wants, instead of as the tradesman wants—as we do. And it's all because we are afraid; afraid of being behind the styles—behind some one who has something newer than ourselves. We forget that we control the styles, and that if we would simply refuse to change there would not be a change—and the modistes would become—as the men's tailors are—purveyors of goods, not dictators of styles."

"It is absurd, of course," agreed Stephanie; "yet who is to break the chains that custom has welded? We women are more or less fools—and the shopkeepers and their class trade on the fact, and laugh in their sleeves while doing it. And we know we're fools and that they're laughing, but we pretend ignorance. It must be very amusing to a man."

"If he takes time enough to notice it—or if it doesn't touch him in the pocket," Marcia returned.

"More especially the latter!" Stephanie laughed.

She saw Mrs. Porterfield coming down the room with Mrs. Postlewaite. As they neared, she glanced at them with the casual look of a total stranger, and went on with her luncheon. Miss Emerson remarked it and smiled inwardly in appreciation of the situation. It was beautifully carried off. The Queen P's were being deliberately ignored—not Mrs. Lorraine.

As they passed, both dames nodded pleasantly to Marcia. Then Mrs. Porterfield, catching Stephanie's eye, bowed slightly but with unmistakable deliberation—as though she wished to impress the act upon all who witnessed it.

Stephanie instantly returned it in just the way it was given—with precisely the same manner and deliberation. Then a little mocking smile crept into her eyes and lingered.

"I know it is bad taste to comment on what does not concern one," Marcia remarked, "but do you quite appreciate the honor that has been done you?"

"I understand the honor—even if I don't appreciate it," Stephanie replied. "It is the first indication that the icebergs are preparing to melt."

"I love the way you first ignored her, and then acknowledged her bow with a manner that was a perfect replica of her own," Marcia laughed.

"Are you going home?" Stephanie asked, when they were drawing on their gloves; "and have you your own car here? No?—well, won't you let me drop you on my way?"

"Indeed, I will," said Marcia. "Mother took the machine and left me to the tender mercies of the street car."

As they came out of the store, two men who were passing took off their hats and bowed most deferentially.

"Who were they?" asked Stephanie, as the car started.

"Charles Porshinger, on the outside—and Henry Murchison," Marcia answered, with a look of quick surprise.

"They must be new people—at least, I've never heard of them."

"They've been in society about a year—they both belong to the nice clubs, and are not married."

"It's comparatively easy for an unmarried man to get in," Stephanie observed. "All that he needs is to present a good appearance and to have a friend or two to vouch for him."

"And if he happens to have money, it is pretty easy to—get the friends!" Marcia smiled.

Stephanie nodded. "To buy the friends, you were about to say. Yes, it is easy now-a-days—entirely too easy."

Then she suddenly thought what she was saying and to whom—and stopped.

But Marcia only laughed—and answered:

"Father is married—and has a daughter. We're in another class, and we're a bit—acclimated now."

"And that daughter," said Stephanie heartily, "has made good—you belong!"

"Mrs. Lorraine," began Marcia presently, "I don't want to seem impertinent, but did you really intend me to infer, from what you said as we came out of Partridge's, that you did not know Porshinger or Murchison?"

"Yes indeed," Stephanie replied. "I not only don't know them, but I have no recollection even of having seen them prior to to-day. Why do you ask?"

"I will tell you," said Marcia—"and you may make out of it what you can. Last evening I was up at the Club-house until rather late, and four or five of us were sitting in a sheltered place on the North piazza. While we were there, Porshinger and Murchison came out and sat down just around the corner. After a short while all of our party went in except Mr. Burgoyne and myself—and he was called, a moment after, to the telephone. Left alone I could not but hear Porshinger's and Murchison's talk. We had been making a good deal of noise, and they evidently thought from the silence that we all had gone in. But however that is, I heard Murchison say:

"'Is there anything new in the Lorraine matter?'

"'Not much,' said Porshinger. 'The thing is coming along though, never fear. Pendleton, the snob, is not invulnerable. I've found a way to reach him, and it's only a matter of a little time till he will be having troubles of his own—and Mrs. Lorraine also.'

"'Better leave well enough alone,' Murchison cautioned.

"'That may be your way—it's not mine!' retorted the other. 'They started the fight, now I'm going to accommodate them. They will think merry hell has broke loose before I'm through with them.'

"Then Mr. Burgoyne returned and I heard no more. Can you understand it?"

Stephanie shook her head.

"I can not," she said—"but possibly Mr. Pendleton can explain it. I shall tell him, if you don't mind, the next time I see him."

"Tell him by all means," Marcia responded. "You have my permission."