She sat back, as Margaret Duffield went on talking in her deft, sure way, outlining the work to be done. It seemed to Helen that Margaret had hardly changed in eight years. She had been just like this in college, eager, competent, doing things for suffrage, talking feminism. Well, so had Helen, herself. But something had changed her point of view subtly. Was it being married, she wondered? She couldn’t rouse her enthusiasms really over all this woman business any more. Was it laziness? Was it lack of inspiration? Had she been making too many concessions to Gage’s ideas? She must have Margaret at her house. She wanted to see her and Gage in action. How they would row! She laughed a little to herself, thinking of Gage. The warm little feeling crept over her that always returned as she thought of him. How foolish Margaret was to miss all that--living with a man. Suddenly she felt expanded, experienced. She wanted to do something to show that all her discontents had vanished. She had been nervous and dissatisfied since Margaret had come. Well, she had come, and Helen had measured herself up beside her, fearful of shrinkage in her own stature. What was it that to-night had reassured her, made her feel that Margaret had not really gone beyond her, that she was not really jealous of Margaret’s kind of life? The others were still talking of projected trips into the country. “Let’s go then,” said Helen, leaning forward, “and get them so stirred up that we leave all the old farmers gasping. Let’s start a rebellion of country women. Let’s get them thinking!” Margaret stared at her. “That sounds more like you!” she exclaimed. “I’m full of energy,” said Helen, on her feet now. “Margaret, you must come to my house within three days or I’ll send a policeman for you. And now I’m going to break up Gage’s bridge game.” She could break it up. Gage was immediately conscious of her. As she sat beside him, pretending quiet and interest, he could feel that she was neither quiet nor interested. He was pleased that she had broken away from the Duffield girl to come to him. He wanted to acknowledge it. To throw down his cards and put his arms about her. Since he couldn’t do that he kept on thinking of it. “You bring us bad luck, Mrs. Flandon,” said Gage’s partner, with a flavor of tartness. She rose again, laying her hand lightly on her husband’s shoulder. “Driven away from the serious minded everywhere. If I go into the music room and shut the door tightly, may I play?” That she knew would disturb Gage too. And she couldn’t help disturbing him. She would play the things that held especial meanings for him and her. She would play the things which she had used to play in college for Margaret on Sunday evenings, set her by the ears too, startle her out of her seriousness as she had used to startle her. She would arouse in Margaret some of those emotions which couldn’t be dead. She would find out if she had those emotions still.