Christine had been making a fight, although her heart was only half in it. She was resolutely good-humored, ignored the past, dressed for Palmer in the things he liked. They still took their dinners at the Lorenz house up the street. When she saw that the haphazard table service there irritated him, she coaxed her mother into getting a butler. The Street sniffed at the butler behind his stately back. Secretly and in its heart, it was proud of him. With a half-dozen automobiles, and Christine Howe putting on low neck in the evenings, and now a butler, not to mention Harriet Kennedy's Mimi, it ceased to pride itself on its commonplaceness, ignorant of the fact that in its very lack of affectation had lain its charm. On the night that Joe shot Max Wilson, Palmer was noticeably restless. He had seen Grace Irving that day for the first time but once since the motor accident. To do him justice, his dissipation of the past few months had not included women. The girl had a strange fascination for him. Perhaps she typified the care-free days before his marriage; perhaps the attraction was deeper, fundamental. He met her in the street the day before Max Wilson was shot. The sight of her walking sedately along in her shop-girl's black dress had been enough to set his pulses racing. When he saw that she meant to pass him, he fell into step beside her. “I believe you were going to cut me!” “I was in a hurry.” “Still in the store?” “Yes.” And, after a second's hesitation: “I'm keeping straight, too.” “How are you getting along?” “Pretty well. I've had my salary raised.” “Do you have to walk as fast as this?” “I said I was in a hurry. Once a week I get off a little early. I--” He eyed her suspiciously. “Early! What for?” “I go to the hospital. The Rosenfeld boy is still there, you know.” “Oh!” But a moment later he burst out irritably:-- “That was an accident, Grace. The boy took the chance when he engaged to drive the car. I'm sorry, of course. I dream of the little devil sometimes, lying there. I'll tell you what I'll do,” he added magnanimously. “I'll stop in and talk to Wilson. He ought to have done something before this.” “The boy's not strong enough yet. I don't think you can do anything for him, unless--” The monstrous injustice of the thing overcame her. Palmer and she walking about, and the boy lying on his hot bed! She choked. “Well?” “He worries about his mother. If you could give her some money, it would help.” “Money! Good Heavens--I owe everybody.” “You owe him too, don't you? He'll never walk again.” “I can't give them ten dollars. I don't see that I'm under any obligation, anyhow. I paid his board for two months in the hospital.”