Warren roused himself from deep thought.
"At the Long Island house; at Clark's Hills."
"Oh!" Magsie, who was now seated opposite him, clasped her hands girlishly about her knees. "What is the plan, Greg?" she asked vivaciously.
"Her plan?" Warren said clearing his throat.
"Our plan!" Magsie amended contentedly. And she summarized the case briskly: "Rachael consents to a divorce, we know that. I am not going on with Bowman, I've decided that. Now what?" She eyed his brooding face curiously. "What shall I do, Greg? I suppose we oughtn't to see each other as we did last summer? If Rachael goes West--and I suppose she will--shall I go up to the Villalongas'? They're terribly nice to me; and I think Vera suspects---"
"What makes you think she does?" Warren asked, feeling as if a hot, dry wind suddenly smote his skin.
"Because she's so nice to me!" Magsie answered triumphantly. "Rachael's been just a little snippy to Vera," she confided further, "or Vera thinks she has. She's not been up there for ages! I could tell Vera---"
Warren's power of reasoning was dissipated in an absolute panic. But George had primed him for this talk. He assumed an air of business.
"There are several things to think of, Magsie," he said briskly, "before we can go farther. In the first place, you must spend the summer comfortably. I've arranged for that--"
He handed her a small yellow bank-book. Magsie glanced at it; glanced at him.