Barton glanced hurriedly, almost shamedly, at the several names and incidents, and knew surprise ere he committed the document to the flames. At any rate, Sonny had been most discreet. As he stared at the ashes, Barton pondered how much of his own younger life, from his bachelor days, resided in old MacIlwaine’s keeping. Next, Barton found himself blushing, to himself, at himself. If MacIlwaine knew so much of the private lives of community figures, then had not he, her husband and protector and shielder, planted in MacIlwaine’s brain a suspicion of Ida? * * * * * “Anything on your mind?” Lee asked his wife that evening, as he stood holding her wrap while she put the last touches to her dressing. This was in line with their old and successful compact of frankness, and he wondered, while he waited her answer, why he had refrained so long from asking her. “No,” she smiled. “Nothing particular. Afterwards . . . perhaps . . . ” She became absorbed in gazing at herself in the mirror, while she dabbed some powder on her nose and dabbed it off again. “You know my way, Lee,” she added, after the pause. “It takes me time to gather things together in my own way—when there are things to gather; but when I do, you always get them. And often there’s nothing in them after all, I find, and so you are saved the nuisance of them.” She held out her arms for him to place the wrap about her—her valiant little arms that were so wise and steel-like in battling with the breakers, and that yet were such just mere-woman’s arms, round and warm and white, delicious as a woman’s arms should be, with the canny muscles, masking under soft-roundness of contour and fine smooth skin, capable of being flexed at will by the will of her. He pondered her, with a grievous hurt and yearning of appreciation—so delicate she seemed, so porcelain-fragile that a strong man could snap her in the crook of his arm. “We must hurry!” she cried, as he lingered in the adjustment of the flimsy wrap over her flimsy-prettiness of gown. “We’ll be late. And if it showers up Nuuanu, putting the curtains up will make us miss the second dance.” He made a note to observe with whom she danced that second dance, as she preceded him across the room to the door; while at the same time he pleasured his eye in what he had so often named to himself as the spirit-proud flesh-proud walk of her. “You don’t feel I’m neglecting you in my too-much poker?” he tried again, by indirection. “Mercy, no! You know I just love you to have your card orgies. They’re tonic for you. And you’re so much nicer about them, so much more middle-aged. Why, it’s almost years since you sat up later than one.”