the imaginary nature of the disease, rather than to the skill of the
physician.

Not even his wife's undeniable charm could altogether efface this
impression from the mind of this sort of man. But though his way of
turning the theme of a smoking-room story into a subject for serious
scientific discussion might make you uncomfortable, you couldn't meet
James Randolph and hear him talk, without respecting him. He was
attractive to women (it amounted almost to fascination with the neurotic
type), and to men of high intelligence, like Rodney, he was a boon and
a delight. And the people who liked him least were precisely those most
attracted by his wife. Anyhow, no one refused an invitation to their
dinners.

Rose's arrival at this one--a little late, to be sure, but not
scandalously--created a mild sensation. None of the other guests were
strangers, either, on whom she could have the effect of novelty. They
were the same crowd, pretty much, who had been encountering one another
all winter--dancing, dining and talking themselves into a state of
complete satiety with one another. They'd split up pretty soon and
branch out in different directions--the Florida east coast, California,
Virginia Hot Springs and so on, and so galvanize their interest in life
and in one another. At present they were approaching the lowest ebb.

But when Rose came into the drawing-room--in a wonderful gown that dared
much, and won the reward of daring--a gown she'd meant to hold in
reserve for a greater occasion, but had put on to-night because she had
felt somehow like especially pleasing Rodney--when she came in, she
reoxygenated the social atmosphere. She won a moment of complete
silence, and when the buzz of talk arose again, it was jerky--the