Locked securely in the sanctuary of her own rooms, the wife and mother undressed feverishly, without once permitting her eyes to wander toward a mirror. She knew that she would see there only a skeleton beneath the artifices she had permitted the French maid to gloss her with. She was feeling all about her the ghosts—of what once had been, what might have been. So this was the end! She had tried—tried after Hugh’s own suggestions imposed on her so often—and had failed! This time, too, it had further been the suggestion of her son. She dropped wearily into a chair, her eyes closely examining her slender foot, but her thoughts far from it. Howard had told her—He had meant so well, too, poor boy! What was that he had said—Oh, yes—— “To hell with your beliefs—your husband’s love means more than beliefs.” And now it was too late! Now she had nothing left but her beliefs. She must cling to them—must live her wrecked life as worthily as her conscience bade her. Slowly she prepared for bed. She would try to rest, to forget, if she could, that Hugh might be, probably was with Geraldine DeLacy while she, Marjorie, grieved over their dead love. The feeling of the make-up on her face annoyed her. She went into her bathroom and carefully washed it all off. She censured herself severely for being ridiculous enough to imagine for a moment that she could rekindle the fire in her husband’s heart by artifice. Never again would she stoop to employ tricks worthy only of a class of women depicted on the motion picture screen, vampires, she believed they were called. But for the children’s sake she would remain with Hugh and deliberately close her eyes to his unfaithfulness. She did not even realize her own unfairness. For without attempting to investigate the situation, or obtain evidence other than the scene she had witnessed in the taxi, Marjorie had jumped to the conclusion of there being but one solution to her husband’s transgression. She had forced her husband into another woman’s willing arms. When Hugh Benton left home in so ungraciously hurried a manner, he found it was a little early for his appointment with Mrs. DeLacy, so he ordered his chauffeur to drive slowly through the park. It would at least be restful in the car and he was desperately tired of these continual scenes and arguments at home. By the time he reached the Thurston home, he had put his unpleasant talk with Marjorie from his mind. Mrs. DeLacy was waiting for him in the living room. She wore a clinging gown of orchid canton crêpe, effectively trimmed with crystal beads. The stage had been set perfectly. All the large lights were out, and only the soft glow of rose-shaded lamps illuminated the room. It was just chilly enough to permit of a small fire in the grate, thereby lending an atmosphere of homelike comfort to the room. “I’m so glad to see you,” she greeted cordially, seating him in a comfortable easy chair, and placing a smoking stand beside him.