A month went by and Lorraine made no move to obtain a divorce—neither did he appear to seek a reconciliation. At first Society was aghast with wonder, then it gradually accepted the course as one of Lorraine's eccentricities of character. At the beginning he had made no secret of his purpose to institute suit whenever personal service could be obtained on her—although he was of course aware that personal service was not necessary in such a case. He had a rather Quixotic idea of the matter, it seemed. Now when he was given the opportunity, and had openly expressed his intention to proceed forthwith, he suddenly veered off and became non-committal and non-communicative—even to his intimate friends.

They did not know—no one knew from him—that he had offered reconciliation and that Stephanie had refused it. On this he was absolutely silent. He had been injured enough before all the world without giving it fresh food for gossip in this new injury that was almost as searing to his pride as the other. To have his wife run off with another man was humiliating enough, but to have his offer to forget and forgive, and to reinstate calmly declined, was mortifying to the last degree. Even to Cameron he could not bring himself to confess such a shameful thing.

And the more he brooded over it, the greater seemed the wrong and the more he grew to hate—not Stephanie, but Amherst. Amherst's was the injury: if he had not led her astray there never would have been the scandal—and her love would not have been lost. No—Stephanie was not to blame! It was Amherst! Amherst had entered his home and had robbed him of his dearest possessions—his wife and his wife's love; made of him a mock and a jest—a thing despised or pitied, as the case might be. He imagined that he was the butt of all Society—the forsaken husband at whom they were laughing slyly for his incompetence in not protecting his own.

But instead of confiding his notion to Cameron or to some other friend, as he was wont to do, he buried it deep in his heart—and fed upon it until it became the main-spring of his life: to square accounts with Amherst. And as Amherst grew the blacker to him, Stephanie grew the whiter—until finally he even acquitted her of all voluntary wrong. She was Amherst's victim, as much as himself.

Which, only to a certain extent, was true. Amherst had led her astray—but she had gone willingly, and with never a thought of the husband who was too weak or too heedless to hold her to propriety and duty.

And though he nursed his wrath to keep it warm, he did not venture—yet—to intrude on Stephanie again. He went his usual way; and with the craft of his passion he was changed only in one respect:—upon the subject of his married life, its past and its future, concerning which he had once been so voluble, he now never spoke.

And unless he spoke first, no one could speak to him. Though every one marvelled exceedingly—and many expressed their marvel to one another in becoming or unbecoming fashion, depending on the respective point of view and the respective disposition of the expressor—usually a woman.

Stephanie, meanwhile, went her way with the same air of contemptuous indifference that she had shown on the Club-house piazza the afternoon of her reappearance.

At first, Society had resented it—a few resented it actively—but soon they began to soften a bit, and not to be quite blind when she was in the vicinity. Stephanie Lorraine was of unimpeachable birth. Her ancestors had been in Society as long as there was any Society to be in—except aborigines; and if one, under such circumstances, assumes an attitude of superiority, the general herd will follow in time—even though the way be through the avenue of the Divorce Court.

The difficulty in the case was that Mrs. Postlewaite and Mrs. Porterfield—the "Queen P's," as they were called—were a trifle recalcitrant. They ruled Society and they had not approved of Stephanie's doings even before she married. She had been quite too disregardful of conventions. Her affair with Amherst was shameful enough, they averred, but when it had culminated in the elopement, they were outraged beyond words—figuratively speaking, that is; there was no paucity and little repression of language in the actual. And when she suddenly returned, without a warning or even an intimation, and came up to the Club-house in the most casual manner—as though she had done nothing! nothing! nothing! they were enraged at her "effrontery." It was the end of their reign, they saw, unless she were made to pay penance for her offence in sackcloth and ashes. The younger set would defy their authority—they were near to defying it now, with their new-fangled ideas and disregard for every convention that stood for the old order.

They might overlook some things, even though they were bizarre and questionable, but Stephanie's offence was beyond the pale. If she were permitted to come back to all her old privileges, and to go unpunished by Society for her crime against it, then the reign of the dissolute and depraved had begun. And they shook their heads gravely, and with much decision resolved that it must not be.

So they let their decision be known and set quickly to work. It was acquiesced in by almost all elders and by those who naturally follow the leaders. Of the others, the majority thought that there was no haste in the matter, and composed themselves and awaited developments. The few who were independent, and accustomed to do as they pleased, were uninfluenced by the rest—but they waited also. And those that the Queen P's had thought would receive Stephanie with open arms—the fast members of the younger set—held off, and even edged away. They realized that the Lorraine affair had made their own conduct all the more marked, and they were afraid to take her up. As one of them put it: "A fellow feeling's all right—but we're not running an eleemosynary institution at this stage of the game." The degrees of intimacy, moreover, could be gauged by the manner of salutation. Some did not speak at all—some spoke only when it could not be avoided—some spoke when the occasion required—some spoke always but with a certain reserve—some spoke naturally, but went no further—some were as they had always been—friends.

And Stephanie met them in kind.

Gladys Chamberlain, Elaine Croyden, Dorothy Tazewell, Margaret Middleton, Helen Burleston, Sophia Westlake, and a few others among the women, were her friends. Pendleton, Burgoyne, Croyden, Mortimer, Fitzgerald, Devereux, Westlake, Devonshire and a score of others among the men. There is never a dearth of men where the woman is a beauty and well-born—that she is also a woman with a past only adds to her attractiveness.

To but one person, other than her mother, did Stephanie reveal the incident of Lorraine's visit—and then not until some time thereafter.

It was one evening when she and Pendleton had dined together alone at her home—Mrs. Mourraille being out of town for several days—and were sitting afterward in the piazza-room in the moonlight.

"Stephanie," said he—after a pause, and apropos of nothing—dropping his cigarette into the ash tray on the taboret between them and lighting another, "what do you make out of Lorraine—isn't his conduct exceedingly queer?"

"In what way?" she asked.

"In not applying for a divorce."

"Is that an exhibition of queerness on his part?" she smiled.

"It is—he never does the natural thing. What would be idiotic in a sensible chap is just what one expects from him. That Saturday at the Club-house—afterward, you know—he was going to begin action on Monday. And Sunday you had the peculiar scene in the Park where he threatened you with its immediate filing and so on—yet since that day no one has ever heard him mention divorce."

"Rather an unusual time for Harry to hold to one opinion!" she laughed. "I should say a change is long overdue." And when Pendleton looked at her with a puzzled air she added: "He told me he would not get a divorce—and that I could not. I'm waiting for him to change his mind again and to file his papers. I am advised that once filed they cannot be withdrawn without my consent, and that I am permitted to press for a decision."

"He told you that Sunday in the Park?" he exclaimed.

"No—it was somewhat later in the week. He came here, and—offered to—take me back—to forget and forgive. And I declined."

"You declined?" he marvelled. "Did you appreciate what you were throwing away, Stephanie?"

"Yes—a worthless man, for one thing," she replied.

"And what else?" he asked, leaning a bit forward.

"A life-time of incompatibility and discord."

"And what else?"

"The opportunity for Society to overlook my—sin," she answered.

He nodded. "Just so—and you choose against Society. Was it wise, Stephanie; was it wise, do you think?"

"What do you think it was, Montague?" she asked with an intimate little smile.

"I think it was very foolish," he replied promptly; then added—"from the point of expediency."

"And very wise from the point of happiness and myself—n'est ce pas?" she smiled.

"Yes," he said; "unquestionably, yes—but few would have had the courage to refuse."

"Let me tell you about it," she broke in. She disliked praise even from her best friends, and she feared Pendleton would not remember. "Mother was dreadfully disappointed, I fear—though she has not mentioned the matter since. It was the expedient way, of course; it would minimize the scandal, and things would go along pretty much as before. That is just the difficulty. I couldn't return to the old way. I could not endure it for a moment—not even long enough to make a show at the reconciliation so that I might purchase Society's forgetfulness. No, not even if I could be assured, before going back to him, of ultimately being divorced."

"I understand," he said.

"You always understand, Montague," she replied. "You're the most satisfactory of friends."

He made a deprecatory gesture. He was as averse as she to praise.

"You were about to tell of the Lorraine offer?" he reminded her.

And she told him all—not withholding even the final scene.

"I am not surprised," he remarked, when she had finished. "It is just what one might expect from Lorraine. He was not too strong-minded to start with, and this affair seems to have put him entirely to the bad. He is keeping his own counsel now, however, which is suspicious. As you say, he is long overdue for a change of mind, and it doesn't seem to be forthcoming. How does he act when he sees you—if you've noticed?"

"It is rather queer but I haven't seen him since that afternoon. Possibly because I've been at the Club very rarely—not over a half-dozen times, I should say—you were with me on the most of them."

"At least he has been quiescent," Pendleton added—"and sticking to business, I hear, most assiduously. In that respect your coming back seems to have steadied him."

"I'm glad to have done him some good indirectly," she smiled.

"He still is just a boy," said Pendleton, "despite his thirty years. He has always had his own way, with nothing to settle him until this came—and it completely unsettled him. So much so that very few of the men had much sympathy for him. It went to you, Stephanie, instead. In fact, the men had the matter right from the very first; they knew Lorraine, they knew Amherst, and they knew—other things, as well."

"And the women?" she asked.

"Oh, damn the women!" he replied.—"I beg your pardon, Stephanie—but it is Mrs. Postlewaite and Mrs. Porterfield and all their kind, I mean. A small number are discriminating and broad minded, like Gladys Chamberlain and Elaine Croyden and Sophia Westlake and a few more. They are friends—the rest are worthless bundles of dress goods—manikins, if you please, pulled this way and that by the fetish of the commonplace and the proper."

"Don't tell Mrs. Postlewaite!" laughed Stephanie. "She would have a fit."

"It might do her some good if she had. I despise those people who are so smug and self satisfied in their assumed superiority that they think their ipse dixit inflates the social balloon. It's a positive pleasure to have some one kick a hole in it just to show them they're wrong."

"As I did, you mean," said she. "However, it would have been quite as effective had I made another sort of kick. I punctured the balloon, all right, but its entangling folds may stifle me. At least they are pretty stifling at present. It would be a small matter if I were a man—a man can do things and be none the worse for them; but I'm a woman—and it is a powerful big undertaking, Montague, for a woman to kick the social balloon. Generally the balloon flies back and overwhelms her."

"It's not going to overwhelm you," he insisted.

"Not if you and the rest of my friends can prevent—and I think you can," she replied. "I am fortunate in my friends—that is where I'm very, very lucky."

He smiled sympathetically. He knew what she did not:—the Governors of the Country Club were meeting that night and her resignation as a member would likely be requested.

The Queen P's and their allies had accomplished so much of their plans for her punishment. The majority of the Board was made up of men who sought to be popular, and who kow-towed to Mrs. Postlewaite and her clique as the ultimate authority. The popular thing was to run with the sentiment, and so they were running. The few younger members were sure to vote against it, but they would be too weak in numbers to control. He would not tell her, however, for something might yet intervene to prevent—the want of a quorum; the want of a sufficient majority; the want of anything would cause the matter to be postponed.

As an echo to his thoughts came her next remark.

"I have considered, Montague, that it might be well if I were to resign from the Country Club," she said. "I know that almost all the women members are violently opposed to me, and it seems scarcely just to the few friends I have there for me to put them on the defensive and oblige them to make a fight. The Queen P's are hot against me, and they can render it exceedingly unpleasant for the meager opposition, if they are so minded—and I think we may assume that they are. What would you advise?"

For a while he was silent—his fingers playing slowly over the arm of his chair. He was disposed to answer no—she should not be forced into resigning, at this late day, by all the sentiment the infernal women could muster. Had she acted promptly on her return it would have been entirely voluntary; now it savored too much of compulsion, and yet without any one bearing the responsibility. On the other hand, if she permitted the Club to demand her resignation, she did not make the actual opposition any more violent, while all those who opposed such radical action—and he knew their number was not small—would naturally be favorable, in a greater or less degree, to her cause. In other words, she would stand to lose none and to gain many.

"What would you advise me to do, Montague?" she repeated.

"I would advise you not to resign. Hold on—and let them do the resigning for you, if the Governors are so minded."

"You mean you would let them request my resignation?"

He nodded. "It will make you friends—assuredly it will lose you none. That is where a woman has the advantage over a man. A Club can kick a man out and no one ever questions its justice—but it is different with a woman. She is entitled to something more than mere justice—a certain courtesy and consideration must always be hers, together with a proper regard for her sex. Mere justice to a woman becomes injustice—and injustice always reacts on itself."

"You are considering the matter only as it affects me," Stephanie insisted, "while I'm concerned as to the way it affects my friends. What ought I do out of regard for them, is the question."

"Whatever is best for yourself," he answered. "They are friends, you know."

"But I don't know what is best—moreover, for myself I don't care a rap one way or the other. It is nothing to me to belong to their Club, or to chatter small talk and scandal, to lunch and dine and go to the horse-show, and fancy I'm having a glorious time. I'm not a debutante any longer. I've seen enough of life to know the shallows—and Society is the shallowest of them all."

"Yes you do care, Stephanie," he said. "You think that you don't, and all that, but everyone cares for them to a greater or less extent. It's only a matter of degree—life is made up of degrees, and social amenities, their obligations and duties are a part of life."

"I suppose you're right," she admitted, "but, just at present, mine are in an infinitesimal degree," and she crossed her knees and leaned back in content. "At this moment I haven't a care in the world."

"Miss Philosopher!" he smiled.

"Mrs. Philosopher, you mean!" she corrected.

"Your pardon!" said he. "For the moment, I quite forgot."

"It might be well to forget it forever," she reflected.

"I am very willing," he replied, regarding her with indulgent eyes.

She gave him a quick glance, then looked away and a dreamy expression shone in her eyes.

"Montague," she said presently. "Is there no way that I can procure a divorce?"

"I'm afraid not," he answered very kindly—"unless Lorraine permits it. He has offered you a home and to take you back, and you have refused; so that disposes of desertion or non-support. And if you try to convict him of having been—indiscreet—he can set up your own indiscretion as a defense."

"Isn't incompatibility of temper a ground for divorce?" she asked.

"Yes, but it would not apply in your case, if he opposed the suit."

"It all rests with him then," she remarked, with a shrug of denuded shoulders. "Unless he wishes to be free of me, I must stay bound. It doesn't seem quite just—and it's very irksome."

"It is entirely just," he said, "but it is irksome to you—and foolish in him to hold you. However, it is his right and he alone is the judge. The sensible thing would be for him to divorce you on the ground of desertion. It would accomplish the result with a minimum of unpleasantness for you both."

"Then it would be the first time that he ever did the sensible thing, when he could do the reverse," she remarked.

"Aren't you a little bitter?" he smiled.

"Bitter!" she said thoughtfully. "Probably I am. I can't pardon him for his supineness, his silly disregard of my danger. I may be wrong—may be doing him a deep injustice—but I shall never forgive him for letting me sink into Amherst's clutches. A pretty mess I have made of my life so far!" she commented, with a sarcastic little laugh.

He leaned forward and took her hand—and she let him take it.

"Don't, dear!" he entreated, with all the tenderness of the strong man. "It is not such a mess as you think. It will work out for your advantage—it has already done so—you're free of both Lorraine and Amherst. Isn't that something?"

"If I were free of Lorraine I think I should be satisfied; it would be worth everything else—but I'm not."

"Not legally free, but free in fact," he answered. "And you'll be legally free also in a short time—a very short time. Lorraine's present mind can't last much longer, Stephanie."

"I hope you're a true prophet," said she, withdrawing her hand—as Tompkins appeared to light the candles in their big glass shades.

"I wish I were as certain of something else as I am of that," he reflected slowly, studying the coal of his cigarette, but watching her face with deliberately avowed surreptitiousness.

And she observed it and inferred what he meant, and her pulses beat a trifle faster, but beyond a smile, which she contrived to be half-puzzled, half-questioning, and wholly fascinating, she made no answer.

She was lovelier now, he thought, than he had ever seen her. Her figure, in its clinging narrow evening gown, had rounded into the most adorable curves, though retaining all its youthful slenderness. Two years ago she had suggested what to-night she was—a glorious woman. And the flawless face, ordinarily so cold in its beauty, was soft and tender as he had never thought to see it. He bent over and deliberately looked her in the eyes—and she, from the recess of her chair, knowing that he would come no further, calmly looked him back. Neither spoke—yet the one told a purpose formed, and the other did not warn him to desist.

"Do you realize just how lovely you are?" he asked.

"Yes," she smiled. "I have my eyes and my mirrors—and an admiring maid."

"But you haven't——" he began—and broke off. He was about to say "you haven't a husband to tell you."

And she guessed his words instantly—but not his exact meaning.

"'I haven't a husband to tell me,' you were going to say. Why didn't you say it? It would have been no more than the truth."

"I was not thinking of Lorraine as the husband," he replied.

She gave a little gasp of surprise at its unexpectedness—a gasp that ended, however, in a smile and a shake of the ruddy head.

"Please give me a cigarette," she said, extending her hand.

He drew out his case and offered it to her.

"Is this all that I may give you now?" he asked.

"All!" she replied, passing a match across the tip. "All—now.... What is it, Tompkins?" as the butler appeared in the doorway and bowed.

"The telephone, madam!" monotoned Tompkins.

"Did you get the name?" she asked.

"The Homoeopathic Hospital, madam; they want to speak to you at once."

"What can it be?" she exclaimed, turning to Pendleton. "Come into the living-room with me, Montague—I'm afraid of hospitals—dreadfully afraid—even by telephone."

Pendleton arose and accompanied her.

"It is nothing," he assured her.

"I am Mrs. Lorraine," she said, when she reached the receiver. "What is it, please?"

"This is the Hahnemann Hospital, Mrs. Lorraine," came the answer and Pendleton could hear it on the other side of the table. "Your husband was seriously injured this evening when his automobile collided with a street car. He was unconscious when brought in, but revived for a moment and has asked for you."

She raised her eyes to Pendleton. He nodded that he had understood.

"Is he conscious now?" she asked to gain time. Her mind was in a whirl.

"No—he relapsed almost instantly. It is impossible to tell now how seriously he is injured. He has bled profusely, from several superficial wounds, but we fear he has been hurt internally. He may also be suffering from concussion. We thought it best, Mrs. Lorraine, to advise you of his condition and that he asked for you," the voice went on, a trifle apologetically.

"You did very right," she replied. "I'll come to the Hospital at once."

She hung up the receiver and looked at Pendleton.

"You heard?"

"Everything."

"What could I do?" she demanded.

"Nothing but what you did."

"But I don't want to do it—I don't want to see him—I don't wish him to die, but——"

"Never mind," he said tenderly. "You don't have to go—you are quite justified in not seeing him. And his condition is not dependent upon your presence or your absence. Do exactly as you choose, Stephanie."

"But if he should die! If he should die, having asked for me, and I having been told and then not hastening to him at once! As a fellow human—not as a wife—is it right that I should deny him what may be his last request?"

"A request he has already forgotten in unconsciousness," Pendleton replied. "Under all the circumstances, your duty depends wholly upon your own desires—to go or not to go as you think best. You are not obligated to consider anything else. Hence I approved of your first determination to go to the Hospital; when you changed your mind and said you would not go, I approve of it also."

"What do you advise me to do?" she asked tremulously.

"I should advise you to go," he said quietly.

"And stay?"

"That can be determined later."

"And will you go with me?"

"I'll go anywhere or do anything you want, dear," he replied.