in
which he had been discovered with Lady Clifford puzzled Esther and
filled her with chagrin. Only a few hours before he had spoken of his
stepmother with open dislike, yet here he was with his arms about her,
her head against his breast. Perhaps, indeed, it was difficult to
explain, yet he might at least try to do so. The evening passed and he
said no word.

At dinner Lady Clifford appeared a radiant vision in pale green
georgette, a little transparent coat veiling the whiteness of her skin,
her lustrous pearls heavy upon her white neck. She had an air of
sweetness and frankness. Esther had never seen her so charming. She
talked to Roger, asked his advice on various matters, and made herself
so agreeable that her sister-in-law noticed it and was pleased. Yet,
although an atmosphere of harmony prevailed, Roger did not look at
ease. When his eye rested on Esther he withdrew it quickly, and with
an air frankly shamefaced. What had happened? Had he experienced a
change of heart, and was he feeling apologetic about it? If that was
so, he need not, Esther reflected proudly. It was nothing to her. She
applied herself to her dinner and refrained from paying the slightest
attention to him.

When coffee was brought into the drawing-room, Roger drank his hastily
and withdrew. A few minutes later she heard a car start outside and
knew that he had taken himself off. In spite of herself she felt hurt.
It was a trifling thing to mind about, yet she did mind, and it was
with a sense of blankness that she resigned herself to playing piquet
with Miss Clifford.

On the chaise-longue in the circle of light from a rose-shaded lamp,
Lady Clifford smoked tranquilly, her silver-shod feet in front of her,
a fashion magazine spread on her lap. She seemed at peace with the
world.

"What a relief, Therese, to think Charles is going on so well," the old
lady remarked at the finish of a hand. "In a day or so he will have
passed the crisis. I feel so much easier in my mind."

"Ah, yes," Lady Clifford replied, looking up. "From now on I should
think we have nothing to fear."

Just then the doctor entered from the hall, setting his empty coffee
cup on a table.

"You are wrong when you speak of a 'crisis' in typhoid, Miss Clifford,"
he informed her. "The correct term is 'lysis,' which is quite a
different thing from a crisis."

"Oh, well, you know what I mean, anyhow. I've always called it a
crisis, all my life, but it