"Well, what is it to-night?" Warren Gregory asked kindly.
"Oh, the same old thing, Greg. The Berry Stokes' dinner, you know!"
"Shame!" the doctor said warmly, touched by her obvious depression. "I'll go up. I can give him some pills. But you know, he can't keep this up forever, Rachael. He's killing himself!"
In her sensitive mood the mildly reproachful tone was too much. Rachael's breast rose, her eyes brightened angrily.
"Perhaps you'll tell me what more I can do, Greg!"
He looked at her in surprise; the shell of Mrs. Breckenridge's cool reserve was not often pierced.
"My dear girl--" he stammered. "Why, Rachael--!"
For battling with a moment of emotion she had flung her beautiful head back against the brilliant cretonne of the chair, her eyes closed, her hands grasping the chair-arms. A tear slipped from under her lids.
"I didn't for one second mean--" he began again uncomfortably.
Suddenly she straightened herself in her chair, and opened her eyes widely. He saw her lovely breast, under its filmy black chiffon, rise stormily. Her voice was rich with protest.