It was time to be making winter plans again. Mrs. Bogardus knew that her son's young family was now complete without her presence. Moya had gained confidence in the care of her child; she no longer brought every new symptom to the grandmother. Yet Mrs. Bogardus put off discussing the change, dreading to expose her own isolation, a point on which she was as sensitive as if it were a crime. Paul was never entirely frank with her: she knew he would not be frank in this. They never expressed their wills or their won'ts to each other with the careless rudeness of a sound family faith, and always she felt the burden of his unrelenting pity. She began to take long drives alone, coming in late and excusing herself for dinner. At such times she would send for her grandson in his nurse's arms to bid him good-night. The mother would put off her own good-night, not to intrude at these sessions. One evening, going up later to kiss her little son, she found his crib empty, the nurse gone to her dinner. He was fast asleep in his grandmother's arms, where she had held him for an hour in front of the open fire in her bedroom. She looked up guiltily. “He was so comfortable! And his crib is cold. Will he take cold when Ellen puts him back?” “I am sure he won't,” Moya whispered, gathering up the rosy sleeper. But she was disturbed by the breach of bedtime rules. In the drawing-room a few nights later she said energetically to Paul. “One might as well be dead as to live with a grudge.” “A good grudge?” “There are no good grudges.” “There are some honest ones--honestly come by.” “I don't care how they are come by. Grudges 'is p'ison.'” She laughed, but her cheeks were hot. “Do you know that Christine has been at death's door? Your mother heard of it--through Mrs. Bowen! Was that why you didn't show me her letter?” “It was not in my letter from Mrs. Bowen.” “I think she has known it some time,” said Moya, “and kept it to herself.” “Mrs. Bowen!” “Your mother. Isn't it terrible? Think how Chrissy must have needed her. They need each other so! Christine was her constant thought. How can all that change in one year! But she cannot go to Banks Bowen's house without an invitation. We must go to New York and make her come with us--we must open the way.” “Yes,” said Paul, “I have seen it was coming. In the end we always do the thing we have forsworn.” “_I_ was the one. I take it back. Your work is there. I know it calls you. Was not Mrs. Bowen's letter an appeal?” Paul was silent. “She must think you a deserter. And there is bigger work for you, too! Here is a great political fight on, and my husband is not in it. Every man must slay his dragon. There is a whole city of dragons!” “Yes,” smiled Paul; “I see. You want me to put my legs under the same cloth with Banks and ask him about his golf score.” “If you want to fight him, have it out on public grounds; fight him in politics.” “We are on the same side!” Moya laughed, but she looked a little dashed.