Only apparent ease of heart, however, for Warren's invariable courtesy and sweetness filled his wife with sick apprehension. Ah, for the old good hours when he scolded and argued, protested and laughed over the developments of the day. Sometimes, nowadays, he hardly heard her, despite his bright, interested smile. Once he had commented upon her gown the instant she came into the room; now he never seemed to see her at all; as a matter of fact, their eyes never met.
In February he told her suddenly that Margaret Clay was to open in another fortnight at the Lyric, in a new play by Gideon Barrett, called "The Bad Little Lady."
"At the Lyric!" Rachael said in a rush of something almost like joy that they could speak of Magsie at last, "and one of Barrett's! Well, Magsie is coming on! What part does she take?"
"The lead--the title part--Patricia Something-or-other, I believe."
"The LEAD! At the Lyric--why, isn't that an astonishing compliment to Magsie!"
Warren looked for his paper-cutter, cut a page, and shrugged his shoulders without glancing up from his book.
"Well, yes, I suppose it is. But of course she's gone steadily ahead."
"But I thought she wasn't so successful last winter, Warren?"
"I don't know," he said politely, wearily, uninterestedly.
"How did you hear this, Warren?" his wife asked, with a deceitful air of innocence.