Porter's face stained a deep mahogany and he bowed stiffly to Katherine.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Newman!"

"I feel as if I were visiting a group of anarchists," said Rhoda
plaintively, "and had innocently passed round a bomb on which to make
conversation!"

Jack Newman laughed, the tension relaxed, and in a moment the dinner was
proceeding merrily, though Porter and Cartwell carefully avoided speaking
to each other. Most of the conversation centered around Rhoda.
Katherine always had been devoted to her friend. And though men always
had paid homage to Rhoda, since her illness had enhanced her delicacy,
and had made her so appealingly helpless, they were drawn to her as
surely as bee to flower. Old and young, dignified and happy-go-lucky,
all were moved irresistibly to do something for her, to coddle her, to
undertake impossible missions, self-imposed.

Porter from his place of vantage beside her kept her plate heaped with
delicacies, calmly removed the breast of chicken from his own plate to
hers, all but fed her with a spoon when she refused to more than nibble
at her meal.

DeWitt's special night-mare was that drafts were blowing on her. He kept
excusing himself from the table to open and close windows and doors, to
hang over her chair so as to feel for himself if the wind touched her.

Katherine and Jack kept Li Chung trotting to the kitchen for different
dainties with which to tempt her. Only Cartwell did nothing. He kept up