The first evening or two Christine's pleasure in having him there gratified

him. He felt kind, magnanimous, almost virtuous. On the third evening he

was restless. It occurred to him that his wife was beginning to take his

presence as a matter of course. He wanted cold bottled beer. When he found

that the ice was out and the beer warm and flat, he was furious.

Christine had been making a fight, although her heart was only half in it.

She was resolutely good-humored, ignored the past, dressed for Palmer in

the things he liked. They still took their dinners at the Lorenz house up

the street. When she saw that the haphazard table service there irritated

him, she coaxed her mother into getting a butler.

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The Street sniffed at the butler behind his stately back. Secretly and in

its heart, it was proud of him. With a half-dozen automobiles, and

Christine Howe putting on low neck in the evenings, and now a butler, not

to mention Harriet Kennedy's Mimi, it ceased to pride itself on its

commonplaceness, ignorant of the fact that in its very lack of affectation

had lain its charm.

On the night that Joe shot Max Wilson, Palmer was noticeably restless. He

had seen Grace Irving that day for the first time but once since the motor

accident. To do him justice, his dissipation of the past few months had

not included women.

The girl had a strange fascination for him. Perhaps she typified the

care-free days before his marriage; perhaps the attraction was deeper,

fundamental. He met her in the street the day before Max Wilson was shot.

The sight of her walking sedately along in her shop-girl's black dress had

been enough to set his pulses racing. When he saw that she meant to pass

him, he fell into step beside her.

"I believe you were going to cut me!"

"I was in a hurry."

"Still in the store?"

"Yes." And, after a second's hesitation: "I'm keeping straight, too."

"How are you getting along?"

"Pretty well. I've had my salary raised."

"Do you have to walk as fast as this?"

"I said I was in a hurry. Once a week I get off a little early. I--"

He eyed her suspiciously.

"Early! What for?"

"I go to the hospital. The Rosenfeld boy is still there, you know."

"Oh!"

But a moment later he burst out irritably:-"That was an accident, Grace. The boy took the chance when he engaged to

drive the car. I'm sorry, of course. I dream of the little devil

sometimes, lying there. I'll tell you what I'll do," he added

magnanimously. "I'll stop in and talk to Wilson. He ought to have done

something before this."




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