"He divorced her!" exclaimed Mrs. Trafford, rearing. "And you brought her to my house!" She held it axiomatic that no woman would divorce a well-appearing breadwinner of the highest efficiency.
"She divorced him," corrected Raphael.
"I can't believe it," replied Mrs. Trafford. "If she did, he let her, to avoid scandal."
"Not at all," protested Boris. "They come from a state which has queer, sentimental divorce laws, made for honest people instead of for hypocrites. They didn't get on well; so, the law let them go their separate ways—since God had obviously not joined them."
"I must look into it," said Mrs. Trafford, with a frown at Raphael and a significant side glance toward Lona. "People in our position can't afford to——"
"I have the honor to wish you good evening," said Boris with a formal bow. And before she could recover herself, he was gone.
"You have made a mess, mamma!" exclaimed Lona.
Mrs. Trafford seemed on the verge of hysterics. "Was there ever a more unfortunate evening!" she cried. Then: "But he'd not have been so touchy, if there wasn't something wrong."
Trafford came sauntering in and she explained the situation to him. He flamed in alarm and anger, impatiently cut off her explanations with, "You've got to straighten this, Lily. If Armstrong should hear of it, and be offended, it'd cost me—I can't tell you how much!"
Mrs. Trafford looked as miserable as she felt. "I'll send off a note apologizing to Raphael this very night," she said. "And in the morning I'll ask her to the opera. Why didn't you warn me?"