he did his very best to make gradual love to her, and for some
unaccountable hideously annoying reason felt every moment more aloof. It
almost seemed at last as if he were guarding something of fine and free
that was being assailed. His dual self was fighting within his soul.

Mrs. Cricklander was experiencing all the exciting emotions which
presumably the knights of old enjoyed when engaged in a tournament. She
was not even disturbed when the dressing-gong rang and she had not yet
won. It was only a postponement of one of the most entrancing games she
had ever played in her successful life. And Mr. Hanbury-Green was going
to sit upon her left hand at dinner and would afford new flint for her
steel. He was a recent acquisition, and of undoubted coming value. His
views were in reality nearer her heart politically than those of John
Derringham. Deep down in her being was a strong class hatred--undreamed
of, and which would have been vigorously denied. She remembered the
burning rage and the vows of vengeance which had convulsed her as a
girl, because the refined and gently bred women of her own New York's
inner circle would have none of her, and how it had been her glory to
trample upon as many of them as she could, when Vincent Cricklander had
placed her as head of his fine mansion in Fifty-ninth Street, having
moved from the old family home in Washington Square. And there,
underneath, was the feeling still for those of any country who, instinct
told her, had inherited from evolution something which none of her
money, and none of her talent, and none of her indomitable will, could
buy. But of course Mr. Hanbury-Green was not to be considered, except as
a foil for her wit--a pawn in the game for the securing of John
Derringham.

Thus it was that she was able to walk in her stately way with trailing
velvets down the broad stairs of her newly acquired home with a sense of