Dick did not claim her for the first dance. It was Fliss he danced with. When he did come to his wife, he looked at her with his eyes still angry. “Dance this, Cecily?” “Where did you learn that raw stuff?” he asked after they had been around the floor silently. “What do you mean?” “You know what I mean. That was a pretty raw attack on Fliss.” “Attack?” “Attack was what I said.” “You mean when I mentioned to Fliss that her cousin couldn’t come to cook. I hadn’t told you, had I, that Ellen was a cousin of the Hortons’.” “I can’t see that it is of much consequence whether she is or not, but you knew how a lot of those people at dinner would make capital of it. It was a deliberate attempt to hurt her. I can’t see why you should do such a thing.” “You ought to know why,” said Cecily. “You ought to know why. Because that woman is dangerous. Because she’s unworthy. She was flirting with you and with Gordon Ames--she was acting like a bad woman--leaning on you.” “Don’t be so cheaply jealous.” “I’m going home,” declared Cecily. “I won’t stay here in this place.” “Very well. You’ve ruined a delightful party anyhow. Will you say good-night?” He did not speak to her on the way home, unlocked the door for her and then when she was in the little vestibule said coolly, “I’m going to the club for a couple of hours. Good-night, Cecily.” The door closed and Cecily went upstairs, her throat choking her. Anger, resentment, but most of all the terrible agony of thought that they had quarreled again and that Dick could not see what she saw nor feel what she felt! Softly she stole through the nurseries so that the children might not be wakened. The sight of them gave her no joy to-night. Only deeper pain and deeper sense of failure! Yet it was some comfort to touch the baby hand lying on Dorothea’s little coverlet, so warm, so confiding even in her sleep. She thought as she stood there of the people who say that they could absorb themselves in their children. Surely even children did not fill up all the spaces in life; not for her anyway could they suffice. At first she thought Dick would be gone only an hour. She undressed slowly, planning what she would say to him. It became clearer to her that she had been shabby and unworthy. She would tell Dick she was sorry, make it up somehow. The hour passed. She crept into bed and waited. But he did not come. One o’clock--half past one; Cecily got up, tormented by the waiting and all the possibilities it suggested. Where _was_ Dick? Wasn’t he coming back at all? Was it possible that he had left the city? Had there been an accident? The children slept on. The house was terribly still. She tried to read, tried to think, wrote a note to Dick and placed it on his bureau, only to go in and destroy it after another half hour’s waiting. She thought she would go mad with anxiety. She determined to be quite indifferent. She would not care if he did not. Again she slipped into her bed and this time fell asleep.