word.

Rachael was beginning to find it more comprehensible, even more
acceptable, than the attitude of her own old world. Fresh from the
Eden that was her life with Warren, she had turned back to the
friends whose viewpoint had been hers a few months ago.

Were they changed, or was she? Both were changed, she decided. She
had been a cold queen among them once, flattered by their praise
and laughter, reckless in speech, and almost as reckless in
action. But now her only kingdom was in Warren Gregory's heart.
She had no largesse for these outsiders; she could not answer them
with her old quick wit now; indeed she hardly heard them. And on
their side, where once there had been that certain deference due
to the woman who, however wretched and neglected, was still
Clarence Breckenridge's wife, now she noticed, with quick shame, a
familiarity, a carelessness, that indicated plainly exactly the
fine claim to delicacy that she had forfeited. Her position in
every way was better now than it had been then. But in some subtle
personal sense she had lost caste. A story was ventured when she
chanced to be alone with Frank Whittaker and George Pomeroy that
her presence would have forbidden in the old days, and Allen
Parmalee gave her a sensation of absolute sickness by merrily
introducing her to his sister from Kentucky with the words: "Don't
stare at her so hard, Bess! Of course you remember her: she was
Mrs. Breckenridge last year, but now she's making a much better
record as Mrs. Gregory!"

The women were even more frank; Clarence's name was often
mentioned in her presence; she was quite simply congratulated and