He left her, disappointed and dismayed. The “mere husband” of her accusation, he felt he must have misunderstood his wife. That affection for him should outweigh her cupidity seemed incredible. And yet what else could have prompted her refusal of his “rather unusual” request? CHAPTER XVI Who does not find the intermission tedious after the tragic second act? The curtain has lowered between you and knowledge of what the end of the play is to be. Over the auditorium side of the footlights the indirect glow from dome and gallery flares. You straighten and turn to your friends. You see them brush the damp from their eye-lashes; hear them clear the husk from their voices; appreciate that they, as well as you, are groping back to reality. But you resent your friends; resent yourself; resent reality. It is a poor exchange for the make-believe whose artistry has humbled a thousand egos into a unit--an audience. Because so essentially temporary, the intermission is a strain. And if to you, how much more to the actors, also waiting behind the scenes, whose ecstasies have brought the great sophisticated house to tears! The week following Mrs. Cabot’s departure from her Fifth Avenue mansion was one of poignant loneliness for Dolores Trent. Strangely enough, however, she refused such companionship as offered. When good Mrs. Morrison urged that she come down to the cheerful first-floor parlor at tea-time or in the evenings, she plead the necessity of brushing-up on the languages upon which she depended for her next position. So almost painful to one of her yielding habits were her frequent refusals to see Dr. Shayle that she left a standing “Not-at-home” with those who answered the door and telephone. With none to give her orders, she looked for things to do and tried to the full of her gentle authority to maintain discipline in the establishment, as when the Cabots were at home. That, so far as she knew at the time, was madame’s chief reason for leaving her in charge. Tactfully she submitted suggestions for increased orderliness to the housekeeper. She instructed the yard-man according to her own ideas of the winter needs of the trees and shrubs under his charge. A stable-boy, suspected of mistreating his master’s mount, she brought to confession and a quixotic zeal to make amends. But chiefly she waited. Impatient of interruption from those who wished to be her friends, of the warm, indirect lighting shafted over her by the Cabot millions, of the comfort of reality, she merely endured the intermission. Her imagination strained toward what would be revealed when the curtain rose again.