“No thank you, Vessinger. We can trust the coachman,--good man, the coachman.” He handed his wife to the carriage. “Won’t you come, Olaf?” she asked. “I think you had better come with me.” Her tone was cold and hard. The man drew himself up quickly. “Thank you, Evelyn. I had rather not. Good-night.” He closed the carriage door, and turned to the men, who had been awkwardly watching the performance from a distance. “Drive on, Tom. Ready now, boys.” [Illustration] VI The morrow was close and sultry. The sun pursued its course through the heavens, round and red like a ball of heated metal. Careful housewives in suburban cottages scrupulously drew in the shutters, pulled the shades, and closed the windows against the fierce heat. Thus they produced the musty coolness of the tomb, in which they existed languidly until late afternoon. Then easterly windows were opened, admitting fresh air. On the eastern piazza of the Simmons house, as the sun sank, there appeared two people. Mrs. Simmons moved here and there restlessly, her face pale with the heat of the day, dark circles beneath her blue eyes. She looped up the wilted tendrils of the climbing vine, patting the belated blossoms with her soft, plump hands. Behind her in the shade of the long house Dr. Vessinger lounged on a chair, smoking a cigarette. “Evelyn!” The doctor’s low voice just reached to her. She started and turned her face to him. He was a slight man, with an active, well-proportioned body. How much he had done for himself since those far-off days when she had first known him! He was Some One now; she had a vague movement of pride that she had held his fancy all these years. “You knew I should be out to-day?” he questioned, following her with his intelligent eyes. “Yes,” she answered dully. “I suppose I did. It was the proper thing to do,” she added bitterly. “No! I don’t mean that! I know you are kind--only I suffer so!” “Has your husband turned up yet?” “No, but he telephoned that he should be back for dinner, late, quite late.” “Oh! Pat Borden took care of him. He was well looked after. You needn’t worry.” “Why should I, about him?” she asked inquiringly, as if she failed to see any significance in what he said. “He telephoned; he is well; he will be here this evening. I do not think about him especially.” “I hope you have thought about--” “No, no, please don’t say those foolish things. They don’t sound well the day after.” He threw away his cigarette and joined her. “You men are all alike!” she continued musingly. “You are all at the bottom brutal; you don’t care for anything but--what it means to _you_. I wonder if there was ever a man born who could care for a woman more than for himself?” “If there were, the woman would tire of him in a week.” “Mamma! You here?” Oscar came skipping out of the house, making one long leap from the drawing-room window to the railing of the veranda. Then he ran toward his mother, arms stretched out to hug her.