"At St. Mark's. He won't live. Poor fellow!" Warren Gregory
scowled thoughtfully as he gave a moment's thought to the other
man's situation, and then smiled sunnily at his wife with a brisk
change of topic. "Well," he said cheerfully, "is anyone in this
place glad to see me, or not, or what?"

"It just seems to me that I CANNOT face all those people to-
night!" Rachael said, giving him a quick, unthinking kiss before
she gently put him away from her, and got to her feet. "It seems
so wrong--so coarse--to be utterly and totally indifferent to the
man who was my husband a year ago. I don't love him, he is nothing
to me, but it's all wrong, this way. If it was Peter Pomeroy or
Joe Butler, of COURSE we'd put off our dance--Warren," she turned
to him with sudden hope in her eyes, "do you suppose anybody'll
come?"

"My dear girl," he said, displeased, "why are you working yourself
into a fever over this? It's most unfortunate, but as far as
you're concerned, it's unavoidable, and you'll simply have to put
a brave face on it, and get through it SOMEHOW! I am absolutely
confident that when you've pulled yourself together you'll come
through with flying colors. Of course everyone'll come; this is
their chance to show you exactly how little they ever think of you
as Breckenridge's wife! And this is your chance, too, to act as if
you'd never heard of him. Dash it! it does spoil our little party,
but it can't be helped!"

"Do you suppose Billy's with him?" Rachael asked, her absent,
glittering eyes fixed upon her own person as she sat before her