They rose and Roxanne followed her past an open bathroom door whose garment-littered floor showed indeed that the laundry hadn’t been sent out for some time, into another room that was, so to speak, the quintessence of pinkness. This was Mrs. Cromwell’s room. Here the hostess opened a closet door and displayed before Roxanne’s eyes an amazing collection of lingerie. There were dozens of filmy marvels of lace and silk, all clean, unruffled, seemingly not yet touched. On hangers beside them were three new evening dresses. “I have some beautiful things,” said Mrs. Cromwell, “but not much of a chance to wear them. Harry doesn’t care about going out.” Spite crept into her voice. “He’s perfectly content to let me play nursemaid and housekeeper all day and loving wife in the evening.” Roxanne smiled again. “You’ve got some beautiful clothes here.” “Yes, I have. Let me show you----” “Beautiful,” repeated Roxanne, interrupting, “but I’ll have to run if I’m going to catch my train.” She felt that her hands were trembling. She wanted to put them on this woman and shake her--shake her. She wanted her locked up somewhere and set to scrubbing floors. “Beautiful,” she repeated, “and I just came in for a moment.” “Well, I’m sorry Harry isn’t here.” They moved toward the door. “--and, oh,” said Roxanne with an effort--yet her voice was still gentle and her lips were smiling--“I think it’s Argile’s where you can get those rompers. Good-by.” It was not until she had reached the station and bought her ticket to Marlowe that Roxanne realized it was the first five minutes in six months that her mind had been off Jeffrey. IV A week later Harry appeared at Marlowe, arrived unexpectedly at five o’clock, and coming up the walk sank into a porch chair in a state of exhaustion. Roxanne herself had had a busy day and was worn out. The doctors were coming at five-thirty, bringing a celebrated nerve specialist from New York. She was excited and thoroughly depressed, but Harry’s eyes made her sit down beside him. “What’s the matter?” “Nothing, Roxanne,” he denied. “I came to see how Jeff was doing. Don’t you bother about me.” “Harry,” insisted Roxanne, “there’s something the matter.” “Nothing,” he repeated. “How’s Jeff?” Anxiety darkened her face. “He’s a little worse, Harry. Doctor Jewett has come on from New York. They thought he could tell me something definite. He’s going to try and find whether this paralysis has anything to do with the original blood clot.” Harry rose. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said jerkily. “I didn’t know you expected a consultation. I wouldn’t have come. I thought I’d just rock on your porch for an hour--” “Sit down,” she commanded. Harry hesitated. “Sit down, Harry, dear boy.” Her kindness flooded out now--enveloped him. “I know there’s something the matter. You’re white as a sheet. I’m going to get you a cool bottle of beer.” All at once he collapsed into his chair and covered his face with his hands.