"I only realize one thing in these days," she answered; "I only
live for one thing!"

It was true. The world for her now was all in her husband, his
smile was her light, and she lived almost perpetually in the
sunshine. When they were parted--and they were never long parted--
the memory of this glance or that tone, this eager phrase or that
sudden laugh, was enough to keep her happy. When they met again,
whether she came to meet him in his own hallway, or rose, lovely
in her furs, and walked toward him in some restaurant or hotel,
joy lent her a new and almost fearful beauty. To dress for him, to
make him laugh, to hold his interest, this was all that interested
her, and for the world outside of their own house she cared not at
all. They had their own vocabulary, their own phrases for moments
of mirth or tenderness; among her gowns he had his favorites.
among the many expressions of his sensitive face there were some
that it was her whimsical pleasure always to commend. Their
conversation, as is the way with lovers, was all of themselves,
and all of praise.

Long before they were ready for the world it began to make its
demands. Rachael loved her own home--they had chosen a large
duplex apartment on Riverside Drive--loved the memorable little
meals they had before the fire, the lazy, enchanting hours of
reading or of music in the big studio that united the two large
floors, the scent of her husband's cigar, the rustle of her own
gown, the snow slipping and lisping against the window, and it was
with great reluctance that she surrendered even one evening. But
there was hospitable Vera Villalonga and her dreadful New Year's
dance, and there were the Bowditch dinner and the Hoyt dinner and