The Other Two

by Edith Wharton

IWaythorn, on the drawing-room hearth, waited for his wife to come downto dinner.It was their first night under his own roof, and he was surprisedat his thrill of boyish agitation. He was not so old, to be sure - hisglass gave him little more than the five-and-thirty years to which hiswife confessed - but he had fancied himself already in the temperatezone; yet here he was listening for her step with a tender sense of allit symbolized, with some old trail of verse about the garlanded nuptialdoor-posts floating through his enjoyment of the pleasant room and thegood dinner just beyond it.They had been hastily recalled from their honeymoon by the illnessof Lily Haskett, the child of Mrs. Waythorn's first marriage. The littlegirl, at Waythorn's desire, had been transferred to his house on the dayof her mother's wedding, and the doctor, on their arrival, broke thenews that she was ill with typhoid, but declared that all the symptomswere favorable. Lily could show twelve years of unblemished health, andthe case promised to be a light one. The nurse spoke as reassuringly,and after a moment of alarm Mrs. Waythorn had adjusted herself to thesituation. She was very fond of Lily - her affection for the child hadperhaps been her decisive charm in Waythorn's eyes - but she had theperfectly balanced nerves which her little girl had inherited, and nowoman ever wasted less tissue in unproductive worry. Waythorn wastherefore quite prepared to see her come in presently, a little latebecause of a last look at Lily, but as serene and well-appointed as ifher good-night kiss had been laid on the brow of health. Her composurewas restful to him; it acted as ballast to his somewhat unstablesensibilities. As he pictured her bending over the child's bed hethought how soothing her presence must be in illness: her very stepwould prognosticate recovery.His own life had been a gray one, from temperament rather thancircumstance, and he had been drawn to her by the unperturbed gayetywhich kept her fresh and elastic at an age when most women's activitiesare growing either slack or febrile. He knew what was said about her;for, popular as she was, there had always been a faint undercurrent ofdetraction. When she had appeared in New York, nine or ten yearsearlier, as the pretty Mrs. Haskett whom Gus Varick had unearthedsomewhere - was it in Pittsburgh or Utica? - society, while promptlyaccepting her, had reserved the right to cast a doubt on its owndiscrimination. Inquiry, however, established her undoubted connectionwith a socially reigning family, and explained her recent divorce as thenatural result of a runaway match at seventeen; and as nothing was knownof Mr. Haskett it was easy to believe the worst of him.Alice Haskett's remarriage with Gus Varick was a passport to theset whose recognition she coveted, and for a few years the Varicks werethe most popular couple in town. Unfortunately the alliance was briefand stormy, and this time the husband had his champions. Still, evenVarick's stanchest supporters admitted that he was not meant formatrimony, and Mrs. Varick's grievances were of a nature to bear theinspection of the New York courts. A New York divorce is in itself adiploma of virtue, and in the semi- widowhood of this second separationMrs. Varick took on an air of sanctity, and was allowed to confide herwrongs to some of the most scrupulous ears in town. But when it wasknown that she was to marry Waythorn there was a momentary reaction. Herbest friends would have preferred to see her remain in the role of theinjured wife, which was as becoming to her as crape to a rosycomplexion. True, a decent time had elapsed, and it was not evensuggested that Waythorn had supplanted his predecessor. Still, peopleshook their heads over him, and one grudging friend, to whom he affirmedthat he took the step with his eyes open, replied oracularly: "Yes - andwith your ears shut."Waythorn could afford to smile at these innuendoes. In the WallStreet phrase, he had "discounted" them. He knew that society has notyet adapted itself to the consequences of divorce, and that till theadaptation takes place every woman who uses the freedom the law accordsher must be her own social justification. Waythorn had an amusedconfidence in his wife's ability to justify herself. His expectationswere fulfilled, and before the wedding took place Alice Varick's grouphad rallied openly to her support. She took it all imperturbably: shehad a way of surmounting obstacles without seeming to be aware of them,and Waythorn looked back with wonder at the trivialities over which hehad worn his nerves thin. He had the sense of having found refuge in aricher, warmer nature than his own, and his satisfaction, at the moment,was humorously summed up in the thought that his wife, when she had doneall she could for Lily, would not be ashamed to come down and enjoy agood dinner.The anticipation of such enjoyment was not, however, the sentimentexpressed by Mrs. Waythorn's charming face when she presently joinedhim. Though she had put on her most engaging teagown she had neglectedto assume the smile that went with it, and Waythorn thought he had neverseen her look so nearly worried."What is it?" he asked. "Is anything wrong with Lily?""No; I've just been in and she's still sleeping." Mrs. Waythornhesitated. "But something tiresome has happened."He had taken her two hands, and now perceived that he was crushinga paper between them."This letter?""Yes - Mr. Haskett has written - I mean his lawyer has written."Waythorn felt himself flush uncomfortably. He dropped his wife'shands."What about?""About seeing Lily. You know the courts -- ""Yes, yes," he interrupted nervously.Nothing was known about Haskett in New York. He was vaguelysupposed to have remained in the outer darkness from which his wife hadbeen rescued, and Waythorn was one of the few who were aware that he hadgiven up his business in Utica and followed her to New York in order tobe near his little girl. In the days of his wooing, Waythorn had oftenmet Lily on the doorstep, rosy and smiling, on her way "to see papa.""I am so sorry," Mrs. Waythorn murmured.He roused himself. "What does he want?""He wants to see her. You know she goes to him once a week.""Well - he doesn't expect her to go to him now, does he?""No - he has heard of her illness; but he expects to come here.""Here?"Mrs. Waythorn reddened under his gaze. They looked away from eachother."I'm afraid he has the right. . . . You'll see. . . ." She made aproffer of the letter.Waythorn moved away with a gesture of refusal. He stood staringabout the softly lighted room, which a moment before had seemed so fullof bridal intimacy."I'm so sorry," she repeated. "If Lily could have been moved -- ""That's out of the question," he returned impatiently."I suppose so."Her lip was beginning to tremble, and he felt himself a brute."He must come, of course," he said. "When is - his day?""I'm afraid - to-morrow.""Very well. Send a note in the morning."The butler entered to announce dinner.Waythorn turned to his wife. "Come - you must be tired. It'sbeastly, but try to forget about it," he said, drawing her hand throughhis arm."You're so good, dear. I'll try," she whispered back.Her face cleared at once, and as she looked at him across theflowers, between the rosy candle-shades, he saw her lips waver back intoa smile."How pretty everything is!" she sighed luxuriously.He turned to the butler. "The champagne at once, please. Mrs.Waythorn is tired."In a moment or two their eyes met above the sparkling glasses. Herown were quite clear and untroubled: he saw that she had obeyed hisinjunction and forgotten.IIWaythorn, the next morning, went down town earlier than usual. Haskettwas not likely to come till the afternoon, but the instinct of flightdrove him forth. He meant to stay away all day - he had thoughts ofdining at his club. As his door closed behind him he reflected thatbefore he opened it again it would have admitted another man who had asmuch right to enter it as himself, and the thought filled him with aphysical repugnance.He caught the "elevated" at the employees' hour, and found himselfcrushed between two layers of pendulous humanity. At Eighth Street theman facing him wriggled out and another took his place. Waythorn glancedup and saw that it was Gus Varick. The men were so close together thatit was impossible to ignore the smile of recognition on Varick'shandsome overblown face. And after all - why not? They had always beenon good terms, and Varick had been divorced before Waythorn's attentionsto his wife began. The two exchanged a word on the perennial grievanceof the congested trains, and when a seat at their side was miraculouslyleft empty the instinct of self-preservation made Waythorn slip into itafter Varick.The latter drew the stout man's breath of relief."Lord - I was beginning to feel like a pressed flower." He leanedback, looking unconcernedly at Waythorn. "Sorry to hear that Sellers isknocked out again.""Sellers?" echoed Waythorn, starting at his partner's name.Varick looked surprised. "You didn't know he was laid up with thegout?""No. I've been away - I only got back last night." Waythorn felthimself reddening in anticipation of the other's smile."Ah - yes; to be sure. And Sellers's attack came on two days ago.I'm afraid he's pretty bad. Very awkward for me, as it happens, becausehe was just putting through a rather important thing for me.""Ah?" Waythorn wondered vaguely since when Varick had been dealingin "important things." Hitherto he had dabbled only in the shallow poolsof speculation, with which Waythorn's office did not usually concernitself.It occurred to him that Varick might be talking at random, torelieve the strain of their propinquity. That strain was becomingmomentarily more apparent to Waythorn, and when, at Cortlandt Street, hecaught sight of an acquaintance, and had a sudden vision of the picturehe and Varick must present to an initiated eye, he jumped up with amuttered excuse."I hope you'll find Sellers better," said Varick civilly, and hestammered back: "If I can be of any use to you -- " and let thedeparting crowd sweep him to the platform.At his office he heard that Sellers was in fact ill with the gout,and would probably not be able to leave the house for some weeks."I'm sorry it should have happened so, Mr. Waythorn," the seniorclerk said with affable significance. "Mr. Sellers was very much upsetat the idea of giving you such a lot of extra work just now.""Oh, that's no matter," said Waythorn hastily. He secretly welcomedthe pressure of additional business, and was glad to think that, whenthe day's work was over, he would have to call at his partner's on theway home.He was late for luncheon, and turned in at the nearest restaurantinstead of going to his club. The place was full, and the waiter hurriedhim to the back of the room to capture the only vacant table. In thecloud of cigar-smoke Waythorn did not at once distinguish his neighbors;but presently, looking about him, he saw Varick seated a few feet off.This time, luckily, they were too far apart for conversation, andVarick, who faced another way, had probably not even seen him; but therewas an irony in their renewed nearness.Varick was said to be fond of good living, and as Waythorn satdespatching his hurried luncheon he looked across half enviously at theother's leisurely degustation of his meal. When Waythorn first saw himhe had been helping himself with critical deliberation to a bit ofCamembert at the ideal point of liquefaction, and now, the cheeseremoved, he was just pouring his cafe double from its little two-storiedearthen pot. He poured slowly, his ruddy profile bent above the task,and one beringed white hand steadying the lid of the coffee-pot; then hestretched his other hand to the decanter of cognac at his elbow, filleda liqueur-glass, took a tentative sip, and poured the brandy into hiscoffee-cup.Waythorn watched him in a kind of fascination. What was he thinkingof - only of the flavor of the coffee and the liqueur? Had the morning'smeeting left no more trace in his thoughts than on his face? Had hiswife so completely passed out of his life that even this odd encounterwith her present husband, within a week after her remarriage, was nomore than an incident in his day? And as Waythorn mused, another ideastruck him: had Haskett ever met Varick as Varick and he had just met?The recollection of Haskett perturbed him, and he rose and left therestaurant, taking a circuitous way out to escape the placid irony ofVarick's nod.It was after seven when Waythorn reached home. He thought thefootman who opened the door looked at him oddly."How is Miss Lily?" he asked in haste."Doing very well, sir. A gentleman -- ""Tell Barlow to put off dinner for half an hour," Waythorn cut himoff, hurrying upstairs.He went straight to his room and dressed without seeing his wife.When he reached the drawing-room she was there, fresh and radiant.Lily's day had been good; the doctor was not coming back that evening.At dinner Waythorn told her of Sellers's illness and of theresulting complications. She listened sympathetically, adjuring him notto let himself be overworked, and asking vague feminine questions aboutthe routine of the office. Then she gave him the chronicle of Lily'sday; quoted the nurse and doctor, and told him who had called toinquire. He had never seen her more serene and unruffled. It struck him,with a curious pang, that she was very happy in being with him, so happythat she found a childish pleasure in rehearsing the trivial incidentsof her day.After dinner they went to the library, and the servant put thecoffee and liqueurs on a low table before her and left the room. Shelooked singularly soft and girlish in her rosy pale dress, against thedark leather of one of his bachelor armchairs. A day earlier thecontrast would have charmed him.He turned away now, choosing a cigar with affected deliberation."Did Haskett come?" he asked, with his back to her."Oh, yes - he came.""You didn't see him, of course?"She hesitated a moment. "I let the nurse see him."That was all. There was nothing more to ask. He swung round towardher, applying a match to his cigar. Well, the thing was over for a week,at any rate. He would try not to think of it. She looked up at him, atrifle rosier than usual, with a smile in her eyes."Ready for your coffee, dear?"He leaned against the mantelpiece, watching her as she lifted thecoffee-pot. The lamplight struck a gleam from her bracelets and tippedher soft hair with brightness. How light and slender she was, and howeach gesture flowed into the next! She seemed a creature all compact ofharmonies. As the thought of Haskett receded, Waythorn felt himselfyielding again to the joy of possessorship. They were his, those whitehands with their flitting motions, his the light haze of hair, the lipsand eyes. . . .She set down the coffee-pot, and reaching for the decanter ofcognac, measured off a liqueur-glass and poured it into his cup.Waythorn uttered a sudden exclamation."What is the matter?" she said, startled."Nothing; only - I don't take cognac in my coffee.""Oh, how stupid of me," she cried.Their eyes met, and she blushed a sudden agonized red.IIITen days later, Mr. Sellers, still house-bound, asked Waythorn to callon his way downtown.The senior partner, with his swaddled foot propped up by the fire,greeted his associate with an air of embarrassment."I'm sorry, my dear fellow; I've got to ask you to do an awkwardthing for me."Waythorn waited, and the other went on, after a pause apparentlygiven to the arrangement of his phrases: "The fact is, when I wasknocked out I had just gone into a rather complicated piece of businessfor - Gus Varick.""Well?" said Waythorn, with an attempt to put him at his ease."Well - it's this way: Varick came to me the day before my attack.He had evidently had an inside tip from somebody, and had made about ahundred thousand. He came to me for advice, and I suggested his going inwith Vanderlyn.""Oh, the deuce!" Waythorn exclaimed. He saw in a flash what hadhappened. The investment was an alluring one, but required negotiation.He listened intently while Sellers put the case before him, and, thestatement ended, he said: "You think I ought to see Varick?""I'm afraid I can't as yet. The doctor is obdurate. And this thingcan't wait. I hate to ask you, but no one else in the office knows theins and outs of it."Waythorn stood silent. He did not care a farthing for the successof Varick's venture, but the honor of the office was to be considered,and he could hardly refuse to oblige his partner."Very well," he said, "I'll do it."That afternoon, apprised by telephone, Varick called at the office.Waythorn, waiting in his private room, wondered what the others thoughtof it. The newspapers, at the time of Mrs. Waythorn's marriage, hadacquainted their readers with every detail of her previous matrimonialventures, and Waythorn could fancy the clerks smiling behind Varick'sback as he was ushered in.Varick bore himself admirably. He was easy without beingundignified, and Waythorn was conscious of cutting a much lessimpressive figure. Varick had no head for business, and the talkprolonged itself for nearly an hour while Waythorn set forth withscrupulous precision the details of the proposed transaction."I'm awfully obliged to you," Varick said as he rose. "The fact isI'm not used to having much money to look after, and I don't want tomake an ass of myself -- " He smiled, and Waythorn could not helpnoticing that there was something pleasant about his smile. "It feelsuncommonly queer to have enough cash to pay one's bills. I'd have soldmy soul for it a few years ago!"Waythorn winced at the allusion. He had heard it rumored that alack of funds had been one of the determining causes of the Varickseparation, but it did not occur to him that Varick's words wereintentional. It seemed more likely that the desire to keep clear ofembarrassing topics had fatally drawn him into one. Waythorn did notwish to be outdone in civility."We'll do the best we can for you," he said. "I think this is agood thing you're in.""Oh, I'm sure it's immense. It's awfully good of you -- " Varickbroke off, embarrassed. "I suppose the thing's settled now - but if -- ""If anything happens before Sellers is about, I'll see you again,"said Waythorn quietly. He was glad, in the end, to appear the moreself-possessed of the two.The course of Lily's illness ran smooth, and as the days passedWaythorn grew used to the idea of Haskett's weekly visit. The first timethe day came round, he stayed out late, and questioned his wife as tothe visit on his return. She replied at once that Haskett had merelyseen the nurse downstairs, as the doctor did not wish any one in thechild's sick-room till after the crisis.The following week Waythorn was again conscious of the recurrenceof the day, but had forgotten it by the time he came home to dinner. Thecrisis of the disease came a few days later, with a rapid decline offever, and the little girl was pronounced out of danger. In therejoicing which ensued the thought of Haskett passed out of Waythorn'smind and one afternoon, letting himself into the house with a latchkey,he went straight to his library without noticing a shabby hat andumbrella in the hall.In the library he found a small effaced-looking man with a thinnishgray beard sitting on the edge of a chair. The stranger might have beena piano-tuner, or one of those mysteriously efficient persons who aresummoned in emergencies to adjust some detail of the domestic machinery.He blinked at Waythorn through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and saidmildly: "Mr. Waythorn, I presume? I am Lily's father."Waythorn flushed. "Oh -- " he stammered uncomfortably. He brokeoff, disliking to appear rude. Inwardly he was trying to adjust theactual Haskett to the image of him projected by his wife'sreminiscences. Waythorn had been allowed to infer that Alice's firsthusband was a brute."I am sorry to intrude," said Haskett, with his over-the- counterpoliteness."Don't mention it," returned Waythorn, collecting himself. "Isuppose the nurse has been told?""I presume so. I can wait," said Haskett. He had a resigned way ofspeaking, as though life had worn down his natural powers of resistance.Waythorn stood on the threshold, nervously pulling off his gloves."I'm sorry you've been detained. I will send for the nurse," hesaid; and as he opened the door he added with an effort: "I'm glad wecan give you a good report of Lily." He winced as the we slipped out,but Haskett seemed not to notice it."Thank you, Mr. Waythorn. It's been an anxious time for me.""Ah, well, that's past. Soon she'll be able to go to you." Waythornnodded and passed out.In his own room, he flung himself down with a groan. He hated thewomanish sensibility which made him suffer so acutely from the grotesquechances of life. He had known when he married that his wife's formerhusbands were both living, and that amid the multiplied contacts ofmodern existence there were a thousand chances to one that he would runagainst one or the other, yet he found himself as much disturbed by hisbrief encounter with Haskett as though the law had not obliginglyremoved all difficulties in the way of their meeting.Waythorn sprang up and began to pace the room nervously. He had notsuffered half so much from his two meetings with Varick. It wasHaskett's presence in his own house that made the situation sointolerable. He stood still, hearing steps in the passage."This way, please," he heard the nurse say. Haskett was being takenupstairs, then: not a corner of the house but was open to him. Waythorndropped into another chair, staring vaguely ahead of him. On hisdressing-table stood a photograph of Alice, taken when he had firstknown her. She was Alice Varick then - how fine and exquisite he hadthought her! Those were Varick's pearls about her neck. At Waythorn'sinstance they had been returned before her marriage. Had Haskett evergiven her any trinkets - and what had become of them, Waythorn wondered?He realized suddenly that he knew very little of Haskett's past orpresent situation; but from the man's appearance and manner of speech hecould reconstruct with curious precision the surroundings of Alice'sfirst marriage. And it startled him to think that she had, in thebackground of her life, a phase of existence so different from anythingwith which he had connected her. Varick, whatever his faults, was agentleman, in the conventional, traditional sense of the term: the sensewhich at that moment seemed, oddly enough, to have most meaning toWaythorn. He and Varick had the same social habits, spoke the samelanguage, understood the same allusions. But this other man . . . it wasgrotesquely uppermost in Waythorn's mind that Haskett had worn a made-uptie attached with an elastic. Why should that ridiculous detailsymbolize the whole man? Waythorn was exasperated by his own paltriness,but the fact of the tie expanded, forced itself on him, became as itwere the key to Alice's past. He could see her, as Mrs. Haskett, sittingin a "front parlor" furnished in plush, with a pianola, and a copy of"Ben Hur" on the centre-table. He could see her going to the theatrewith Haskett - or perhaps even to a "Church Sociable" - she in a"picture hat" and Haskett in a black frock-coat, a little creased, withthe made-up tie on an elastic. On the way home they would stop and lookat the illuminated shop-windows, lingering over the photographs of NewYork actresses. On Sunday afternoons Haskett would take her for a walk,pushing Lily ahead of them in a white enameled perambulator, andWaythorn had a vision of the people they would stop and talk to. Hecould fancy how pretty Alice must have looked, in a dress adroitlyconstructed from the hints of a New York fashion-paper; how she musthave looked down on the other women, chafing at her life, and secretlyfeeling that she belonged in a bigger place.For the moment his foremost thought was one of wonder at the way inwhich she had shed the phase of existence which her marriage withHaskett implied. It was as if her whole aspect, every gesture, everyinflection, every allusion, were a studied negation of that period ofher life. If she had denied being married to Haskett she could hardlyhave stood more convicted of duplicity than in this obliteration of theself which had been his wife.Waythorn started up, checking himself in the analysis of hermotives. What right had he to create a fantastic effigy of her and thenpass judgment on it? She had spoken vaguely of her first marriage asunhappy, had hinted, with becoming reticence, that Haskett had wroughthavoc among her young illusions. . . . It was a pity for Waythorn'speace of mind that Haskett's very inoffensiveness shed a new light onthe nature of those illusions. A man would rather think that his wifehas been brutalized by her first husband than that the process has beenreversed.IV"Mr Waythorn, I don't like that French governess of Lily's."Haskett, subdued and apologetic, stood before Waythorn in thelibrary, revolving his shabby hat in his hand.Waythorn, surprised in his armchair over the evening paper, staredback perplexedly at his visitor."You'll excuse my asking to see you," Haskett continued. "But thisis my last visit, and I thought if I could have a word with you it wouldbe a better way than writing to Mrs. Waythorn's lawyer."Waythorn rose uneasily. He did not like the French governesseither; but that was irrelevant."I am not so sure of that," he returned stiffly; "but since youwish it I will give your message to - my wife." He always hesitated overthe possessive pronoun in addressing Haskett.The latter sighed. "I don't know as that will help much. She didn'tlike it when I spoke to her."Waythorn turned red. "When did you see her?" he asked."Not since the first day I came to see Lily - right after she wastaken sick. I remarked to her then that I didn't like the governess."Waythorn made no answer. He remembered distinctly that, after thatfirst visit, he had asked his wife if she had seen Haskett. She had liedto him then, but she had respected his wishes since; and the incidentcast a curious light on her character. He was sure she would not haveseen Haskett that first day if she had divined that Waythorn wouldobject, and the fact that she did not divine it was almost asdisagreeable to the latter as the discovery that she had lied to him."I don't like the woman," Haskett was repeating with mildpersistency. "She ain't straight, Mr. Waythorn - she'll teach the childto be underhand. I've noticed a change in Lily - she's too anxious toplease - and she don't always tell the truth. She used to be thestraightest child, Mr. Waythorn -- " He broke off, his voice a littlethick. "Not but what I want her to have a stylish education," he ended.Waythorn was touched. "I'm sorry, Mr. Haskett; but frankly, I don'tquite see what I can do."Haskett hesitated. Then he laid his hat on the table, and advancedto the hearth-rug, on which Waythorn was standing. There was nothingaggressive in his manner; but he had the solemnity of a timid manresolved on a decisive measure."There's just one thing you can do, Mr. Waythorn," he said. "Youcan remind Mrs. Waythorn that, by the decree of the courts, I amentitled to have a voice in Lily's bringing up." He paused, and went onmore deprecatingly: "I'm not the kind to talk about enforcing my rights,Mr. Waythorn. I don't know as I think a man is entitled to rights hehasn't known how to hold on to; but this business of the child isdifferent. I've never let go there - and I never mean to."The scene left Waythorn deeply shaken. Shamefacedly, in indirectways, he had been finding out about Haskett; and all that he had learnedwas favorable. The little man, in order to be near his daughter, hadsold out his share in a profitable business in Utica, and accepted amodest clerkship in a New York manufacturing house. He boarded in ashabby street and had few acquaintances. His passion for Lily filled hislife. Waythorn felt that this exploration of Haskett was like gropingabout with a dark-lantern in his wife's past; but he saw now that therewere recesses his lantern had not explored. He had never inquired intothe exact circumstances of his wife's first matrimonial rupture. On thesurface all had been fair. It was she who had obtained the divorce, andthe court had given her the child. But Waythorn knew how manyambiguities such a verdict might cover. The mere fact that Haskettretained a right over his daughter implied an unsuspected compromise.Waythorn was an idealist. He always refused to recognize unpleasantcontingencies till he found himself confronted with them, and then hesaw them followed by a special train of consequences. His next days werethus haunted, and he determined to try to lay the ghosts by conjuringthem up in his wife's presence.When he repeated Haskett's request a flame of anger passed over herface; but she subdued it instantly and spoke with a slight quiver ofoutraged motherhood."It is very ungentlemanly of him," she said.The word grated on Waythorn. "That is neither here nor there. It'sa bare question of rights."She murmured: "It's not as if he could ever be a help to Lily -- "Waythorn flushed. This was even less to his taste. "The questionis," he repeated, "what authority has he over her?"She looked downward, twisting herself a little in her seat. "I amwilling to see him - I thought you objected," she faltered.In a flash he understood that she knew the extent of Haskett'sclaims. Perhaps it was not the first time she had resisted them."My objecting has nothing to do with it," he said coldly; "ifHaskett has a right to be consulted you must consult him."She burst into tears, and he saw that she expected him to regardher as a victim.Haskett did not abuse his rights. Waythorn had felt miserably surethat he would not. But the governess was dismissed, and from time totime the little man demanded an interview with Alice. After the firstoutburst she accepted the situation with her usual adaptability. Hasketthad once reminded Waythorn of the piano-tuner, and Mrs. Waythorn, aftera month or two, appeared to class him with that domestic familiar.Waythorn could not but respect the father's tenacity. At first he hadtried to cultivate the suspicion that Haskett might be "up to"something, that he had an object in securing a foothold in the house.But in his heart Waythorn was sure of Haskett's single-mindedness; heeven guessed in the latter a mild contempt for such advantages as hisrelation with the Waythorns might offer. Haskett's sincerity of purposemade him invulnerable, and his successor had to accept him as a lien onthe property.Mr. Sellers was sent to Europe to recover from his gout, andVarick's affairs hung on Waythorn's hands. The negotiations wereprolonged and complicated; they necessitated frequent conferencesbetween the two men, and the interests of the firm forbade Waythorn'ssuggesting that his client should transfer his business to another office.Varick appeared well in the transaction. In moments of relaxationhis coarse streak appeared, and Waythorn dreaded his geniality; but inthe office he was concise and clear-headed, with a flattering deferenceto Waythorn's judgment. Their business relations being so affablyestablished, it would have been absurd for the two men to ignore eachother in society. The first time they met in a drawing-room, Varick tookup their intercourse in the same easy key, and his hostess's gratefulglance obliged Waythorn to respond to it. After that they ran acrosseach other frequently, and one evening at a ball Waythorn, wanderingthrough the remoter rooms, came upon Varick seated beside his wife. Shecolored a little, and faltered in what she was saying; but Varick noddedto Waythorn without rising, and the latter strolled on.In the carriage, on the way home, he broke out nervously: "I didn'tknow you spoke to Varick."Her voice trembled a little. "It's the first time - he happened tobe standing near me; I didn't know what to do. It's so awkward, meetingeverywhere - and he said you had been very kind about some business.""That's different," said Waythorn.She paused a moment. "I'll do just as you wish," she returnedpliantly. "I thought it would be less awkward to speak to him when wemeet."Her pliancy was beginning to sicken him. Had she really no will ofher own - no theory about her relation to these men? She had acceptedHaskett - did she mean to accept Varick? It was "less awkward," as shehad said, and her instinct was to evade difficulties or to circumventthem. With sudden vividness Waythorn saw how the instinct had developed.She was "as easy as an old shoe" - a shoe that too many feet had worn.Her elasticity was the result of tension in too many differentdirections. Alice Haskett - Alice Varick - Alice Waythorn - she had beeneach in turn, and had left hanging to each name a little of her privacy,a little of her personality, a little of the inmost self where theunknown god abides."Yes - it's better to speak to Varick," said Waythorn wearily.VThe winter wore on, and society took advantage of the Waythorns'acceptance of Varick. Harassed hostesses were grateful to them forbridging over a social difficulty, and Mrs. Waythorn was held up as amiracle of good taste. Some experimental spirits could not resist thediversion of throwing Varick and his former wife together, and therewere those who thought he found a zest in the propinquity. But Mrs.Waythorn's conduct remained irreproachable. She neither avoided Varicknor sought him out. Even Waythorn could not but admit that she haddiscovered the solution of the newest social problem.He had married her without giving much thought to that problem. Hehad fancied that a woman can shed her past like a man. But now he sawthat Alice was bound to hers both by the circumstances which forced herinto continued relation with it, and by the traces it had left on hernature. With grim irony Waythorn compared himself to a member of asyndicate. He held so many shares in his wife's personality and hispredecessors were his partners in the business. If there had been anyelement of passion in the transaction he would have felt lessdeteriorated by it. The fact that Alice took her change of husbands likea change of weather reduced the situation to mediocrity. He could haveforgiven her for blunders, for excesses; for resisting Hackett, foryielding to Varick; for anything but her acquiescence and her tact. Shereminded him of a juggler tossing knives; but the knives were blunt andshe knew they would never cut her.And then, gradually, habit formed a protecting surface for hissensibilities. If he paid for each day's comfort with the small changeof his illusions, he grew daily to value the comfort more and set lessstore upon the coin. He had drifted into a dulling propinquity withHaskett and Varick and he took refuge in the cheap revenge of satirizingthe situation. He even began to reckon up the advantages which accruedfrom it, to ask himself if it were not better to own a third of a wifewho knew how to make a man happy than a whole one who had lackedopportunity to acquire the art. For it was an art, and made up, like allothers, of concessions, eliminations and embellishments; of lightsjudiciously thrown and shadows skillfully softened. His wife knewexactly how to manage the lights, and he knew exactly to what trainingshe owed her skill. He even tried to trace the source of hisobligations, to discriminate between the influences which had combinedto produce his domestic happiness: he perceived that Haskett'scommonness had made Alice worship good breeding, while Varick's liberalconstruction of the marriage bond had taught her to value the conjugalvirtues; so that he was directly indebted to his predecessors for thedevotion which made his life easy if not inspiring.From this phase he passed into that of complete acceptance. Heceased to satirize himself because time dulled the irony of thesituation and the joke lost its humor with its sting. Even the sight ofHaskett's hat on the hall table had ceased to touch the springs ofepigram. The hat was often seen there now, for it had been decided thatit was better for Lily's father to visit her than for the little girl togo to his boarding-house. Waythorn, having acquiesced in thisarrangement, had been surprised to find how little difference it made.Haskett was never obtrusive, and the few visitors who met him on thestairs were unaware of his identity. Waythorn did not know how often hesaw Alice, but with himself Haskett was seldom in contact.One afternoon, however, he learned on entering that Lily's fatherwas waiting to see him. In the library he found Haskett occupying achair in his usual provisional way. Waythorn always felt grateful to himfor not leaning back."I hope you'll excuse me, Mr. Waythorn," he said rising. "I wantedto see Mrs. Waythorn about Lily, and your man asked me to wait here tillshe came in.""Of course," said Waythorn, remembering that a sudden leak had thatmorning given over the drawing-room to the plumbers.He opened his cigar-case and held it out to his visitor, andHaskett's acceptance seemed to mark a fresh stage in their intercourse.The spring evening was chilly, and Waythorn invited his guest to draw uphis chair to the fire. He meant to find an excuse to leave Haskett in amoment; but he was tired and cold, and after all the little man nolonger jarred on him.The two were inclosed in the intimacy of their blended cigar- smokewhen the door opened and Varick walked into the room. Waythorn roseabruptly. It was the first time that Varick had come to the house, andthe surprise of seeing him, combined with the singular inopportunenessof his arrival, gave a new edge to Waythorn's blunted sensibilities. Hestared at his visitor without speaking.Varick seemed too preoccupied to notice his host's embarrassment."My dear fellow," he exclaimed in his most expansive tone, "I mustapologize for tumbling in on you in this way, but I was too late tocatch you down town, and so I thought -- " He stopped short, catchingsight of Haskett, and his sanguine color deepened to a flush whichspread vividly under his scant blond hair. But in a moment he recoveredhimself and nodded slightly. Haskett returned the bow in silence, andWaythorn was still groping for speech when the footman came in carryinga tea-table.The intrusion offered a welcome vent to Waythorn's nerves. "Whatthe deuce are you bringing this here for?" he said sharply."I beg your pardon, sir, but the plumbers are still in thedrawing-room, and Mrs. Waythorn said she would have tea in the library."The footman's perfectly respectful tone implied a reflection onWaythorn's reasonableness."Oh, very well," said the latter resignedly, and the footmanproceeded to open the folding tea-table and set out its complicatedappointments. While this interminable process continued the three menstood motionless, watching it with a fascinated stare, till Waythorn, tobreak the silence, said to Varick: "Won't you have a cigar?"He held out the case he had just tendered to Haskett, and Varickhelped himself with a smile. Waythorn looked about for a match, andfinding none, proffered a light from his own cigar. Haskett, in thebackground, held his ground mildly, examining his cigar-tip now andthen, and stepping forward at the right moment to knock its ashes intothe fire.The footman at last withdrew, and Varick immediately began: "If Icould just say half a word to you about this business -- ""Certainly," stammered Waythorn; "in the dining-room -- "But as he placed his hand on the door it opened from without, andhis wife appeared on the threshold.She came in fresh and smiling, in her street dress and hat,shedding a fragrance from the boa which she loosened in advancing."Shall we have tea in here, dear?" she began; and then she caughtsight of Varick. Her smile deepened, veiling a slight tremor ofsurprise. "Why, how do you do?" she said with a distinct note of pleasure.As she shook hands with Varick she saw Haskett standing behind him.Her smile faded for a moment, but she recalled it quickly, with ascarcely perceptible side-glance at Waythorn."How do you do, Mr. Haskett?" she said, and shook hands with him ashade less cordially.The three men stood awkwardly before her, till Varick, always themost self-possessed, dashed into an explanatory phrase."We - I had to see Waythorn a moment on business," he stammered,brick-red from chin to nape.Haskett stepped forward with his air of mild obstinacy. "I am sorryto intrude; but you appointed five o'clock -- " he directed his resignedglance to the time-piece on the mantel.She swept aside their embarrassment with a charming gesture ofhospitality."I'm so sorry - I'm always late; but the afternoon was so lovely."She stood drawing her gloves off, propitiatory and graceful, diffusingabout her a sense of ease and familiarity in which the situation lostits grotesqueness. "But before talking business," she added brightly,"I'm sure every one wants a cup of tea."She dropped into her low chair by the tea-table, and the twovisitors, as if drawn by her smile, advanced to receive the cups sheheld out.She glanced about for Waythorn, and he took the third cup with a laugh.

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