In the earlier days of their married life she had been willing to sit enshrined because it had been the easiest way to conceal the actual state of her own mind; because it had come to be a habit with her—and with him to behold her there. Their pilgrimage to New York had made a difference. It was not easy for Camilla to define it just yet. He was a little easier in his ways with her, regarded her inaccessibility a little less seriously, and questioned by his demeanor rather than by any spoken words matters which had long been taken for granted by them both. He had made no overt declaration of independence and, in his way, gave her opinions the same respect he had always given them. The difference, if anything, had been in the different way in which they viewed from the very same angle the great world of affairs. Men, as Jeff had always known, were much the same all the world over, but, curiously enough, he had never seen fit to apply any rule to its women. It was flattery, indeed, for him to have believed for so long that, because Camilla was cultured, all cultured women must be like Camilla. His wife realized that Jeff's discovery of Mrs. Cheyne was requiring a readjustment of all his early ideas. And so, while she spoke lightly of Mrs. Cheyne to Cortland Bent, in her heart she was aware that if the lady took it into her pretty head to use Jeff as a weapon she might herself be put upon the defensive.
It seemed as though Cortland had an intuition of what was passing in her mind.
"If there's any way in which I can be of service," he ventured.
"Oh, yes, Cort," she laughed. "I'll call on you. The only thing I ask of you now is—not to fall in love with Mrs. Cheyne."
"Rita? I'd as soon think of falling in love with a kaleidoscope. Besides——"
But she laid restraining fingers on his arm.
"Tell me about Gretchen," she interrupted quickly.
"There's nothing to tell, except," he said with a sigh, "that she's quite gone on Larry."
"You can't mean it?"
"Really—she told me so."