doubt will have observed, the easy unforced isolation of Rodney and the
rich widow. Before that dinner was over, they ought to be old friends.

And, for a little while, all went well. Rodney came down almost within
the seven minutes she had allowed him, looking much less dreadful than
she had expected, in her husband's other dress suit, and not forgetful,
it appeared, of the line of behavior she had enjoined on him; namely,
that he was to be nice to Hermione Woodruff.

From her end of the table, she saw them apparently safely launched in
conversation over the hors-d'oeuvre, took a look at them during the soup
to see that all was still well, then let herself be beguiled into a
conversation with John Williamson, whom she liked as well as Martin did
Violet. She never thought of the objects of her matrimonial design again
until her ear was caught by a huge seven-cornered word in her brother's
voice. He couldn't be saying it to Hermione; no, he was leaning forward,
shouting at Doctor Randolph, who apparently knew what he meant and was
getting visibly ready to reply in kind.

According to Violet Williamson's account, given confidentially in the
drawing-room afterward, it was really Hermione's fault. "She just
wouldn't let Rodney alone--would keep talking about crime and Lombroso
and psychiatric laboratories--I'll bet she'd got hold of a paper of his
somewhere and read it. Anyway, at last she said, 'I believe Doctor
Randolph would agree with me.' He was talking to me then, but maybe that
isn't why she did it. Well, and Rodney straightened up and said, 'Is
that Randolph, the alienist!' You see he hadn't caught his name when
they were introduced. And that's how it started. Hermione was game--I'll
admit that. She listened and kept looking interested, and every now and
then said something. Sometimes they'd take the trouble to smile and say