was entirely delivered. Fanny was a perfect mother, a remarkably fine
wife, but she bore an evident sense of her responsibilities. She wasn't
so good-looking as Claire, who at times was almost beautiful; but Fanny
had a very decided kind of attractiveness which Lee Randon wished she
would more bring out. She was a little too serious. He didn't actually
want her to drink and swear in public, that wouldn't become her; but
something of that sort, he felt, might help her. At times, when she had
had more than her customary cocktail and a half, he saw in her a
promise of what he desired.

God knew he wasn't criticizing Fanny, he hastened to reassure even
himself: how could he, in the face of all she had brought him--the
freedom of money and undeviating devotion and their two splendid
children? His house was as absolute in its restrained luxury of taste
as was the unfailing attention to his comfort. It was purely for her
own happiness that he wanted her to be, well--a little gayer. She was
already developing a tendency to sit serenely on the veranda of the
club through the dances, to encourage others rather than take an active
part herself.

Expanding in the glow of the fire and hot strong tea he forgot all
about his uncomfortable premonitions of age. Now it seemed to him that
he had never been younger in the sense of being merely alive; after the
tonic of the cold his nerves were strung like steel, his blood was in a
full tide. Lee was aware of a marked sense of pleasure at the closeness
to him of Anette; settling back, she willingly, voluntarily, leaned her
firm elastic body against him; her legs, as evident in woolen stockings
as his own, were thrust frankly out toward the flames.

"I'll meet her," he heard Peyton say, and realized that they were still