Until the Voice came to Glen Cove all that troubled Jeanne was that her pony had sprained a tendon, and that in the mixed doubles her eye was off the ball.  Proctor Maddox suggested other causes for discontent.

“What does it matter,” he demanded, “whether you hit a rubber ball inside a whitewashed line, or not?  That energy, that brain, that influence of yours over others, that something men call—­charm, should be exerted to emancipate yourself and your unfortunate sisters.”

“Emaciate myself,” protested Jeanne eagerly; “do you mean I’m taking on flesh?”

“I said ‘emancipate,’” corrected Maddox.  “I mean to free yourself of the bonds that bind your sex; for instance, the bonds of matrimony.  It is obsolete, barbarous.  It makes of women—­slaves and chattels.”

“But, since I married, I’m much freer,” protested Jeanne.  “Mother never let me play polo, or ride astride.  But Jimmie lets me.  He says cross saddle is safer.”

“Jimmie lets you!” mocked the Voice. “That is exactly what I mean.  Why should you go to him, or to any man, for permission?  Are you his cook asking for an evening out?  No!  You are a free soul, and your duty is to keep your soul from bondage.  There are others in the world besides your husband.  What of your duty to them?  Have you ever thought of them?”

“No, I have not,” confessed Jeanne.  “Who do you mean by ‘them’?  Shop-girls, and white slaves, and women who want to vote?”

“I mean the great army of the discontented,” explained the Voice.

“And should I be discontented?” asked Jeanne.  “Tell me why.”

So, then and on many other occasions, Maddox told her why.  It was one of the best things he did.

People say, when the triangle forms, the husband always is the last to see.  But, if he loves his wife, he is the first.  And after three years of being married to Jeanne, and, before that, five years of wanting to marry Jeanne, Jimmie loved her devotedly, entirely, slavishly.  It was the best thing he did.  So, when to Jeanne the change came, her husband recognized it.  What the cause was he could not fathom; he saw only that, in spite of her impatient denials, she was discontented, restless, unhappy.  Thinking it might be that for too long they had gone “back to the land,” he suggested they might repeat their honeymoon in Paris.  The idea was received only with alarm.  Concerning Jeanne, Jimmie decided secretly to consult a doctor.  Meanwhile he bought her a new hunter.

The awakening came one night at a dance at the country club.  That evening Jeanne was filled with unrest, and with Jimmie seemed particularly aggrieved.  Whatever he said gave offense; even his eagerness to conciliate her was too obvious.  With the other men who did not dance, Jimmie was standing in the doorway when, over the heads of those looking in from the veranda, he saw the white face and black eyes of Maddox.  Jimmie knew Maddox did not dance, at