Rachael sat still for perhaps two minutes, while her husband,
ostentatiously cheerful, moved about the room selecting a change
of clothes.

"To-morrow you can take it as hard as you like, sweet," said he.
"But to-night you'll have to face the music! Now get into
something warm--it's a little cool out--and I'll take you for a
spin, and we'll have dinner somewhere. Then we'll get back here
about eight o'clock, and take our time dressing."

"Yes, I'll do that," Rachael agreed automatically. A moment later
she said urgently: "Warren, isn't there a chance that I'm right
about this? Mightn't it be better simply to telephone everyone
that the dance is postponed? Make it next week, or Mi-Careme--
anything. If they talk--let them! I don't care what they say.
They'll talk anyway. But every fibre of my being, every delicate
or decent instinct I ever had, rebels against this. Say I'm not
well, and let them buzz! I know what you are going to say--I know
that it would SEEM less sensitive, less fine, to mourn for one man
while I'm another man's wife, than to absolutely ignore what
happens to him, but you know what's the truth! I never loved him,
and I love every hair of your head--you know that. Only--"

She stopped short, baffled by the difficulty of expressing herself
accurately.

"If you really love me, do what I ask you to-night," Warren
Gregory said firmly.