He lived up to his resolve the next day, bought his flowers as usual, but this time for Nina and took them with him.  And went home with the orchids which were really an offering to his own conscience.

But Nina was not at home.  The butler reported that she was dining at the Wheelers’, and he thought the man eyed him with restrained commiseration.

“Did she say I am expected there?” he asked.

“She ordered dinner for you here, sir.”

Even for Nina that sounded odd.  He took his coat and went out again to the car; after a moment’s hesitation he went back and got the orchids.

Dick Livingstone’s machine was at the curb before the Wheeler house, and in the living-room he found Walter Wheeler, pacing the floor.  Mr. Wheeler glanced at him and looked away.

“Anybody sick?” Leslie asked, his feeling of apprehension growing.

“Nina is having hysterics upstairs,” Mr. Wheeler said, and continued his pacing.

“Nina!  Hysterics?”

“That’s what I said,” replied Mr. Wheeler, suddenly savage.  “You’ve made a nice mess of things, haven’t you?”

Leslie placed the box of orchids on the table and drew off his gloves.  His mind was running over many possibilities.

“You’d better tell me about it, hadn’t you?”

“Oh, I will.  Don’t worry.  I’ve seen this coming for months.  I’m not taking her part.  God knows I know her, and she has as much idea of making a home as—­as”—­he looked about—­“as that poker has.  But that’s the worst you can say of her.  As to you—­”

“Well?”

Mr. Wheeler’s anxiety was greater than his anger.  He lowered his voice.

“She got a bill to-day for two or three boxes of flowers, sent to some actress.”  And when Leslie said nothing, “I’m not condoning it, mind you.  You’d no business to do it.  But,” he added fretfully, “why the devil, if you’ve got to act the fool, don’t you have your bills sent to your office?”

“I suppose I don’t need to tell you that’s all there was to it?  Flowers, I mean.”

“I’m taking that for granted.  But she says she won’t go back.”

Leslie was aghast and frightened.  Not at the threat; she would go back, of course.  But she would always hold it against him.  She cherished small grudges faithfully.  And he knew she would never understand, never see her own contribution to his mild defection, nor comprehend the actual innocence of those afternoons of tea and talk.

There was no sound from upstairs.  Mr. Wheeler got his hat and went out, calling to the dog.  Jim came in whistling, looked in and said:  “Hello, Les,” and disappeared.  He sat in the growing twilight and cursed himself for a fool.  After all, where had he been heading?  A man couldn’t eat his cake and have it.  But he was resentful, too; he stressed rather hard his own innocence, and chose to ignore the less innocent impulse that lay behind it.