men that such as she tried for she usually got. There were exceptions,
but them she could count on the fingers of one hand. Harleston--though
for a time he was on the verge of submission--was an exception. And for
that she was ready to rend him at the fitting opportunity; the more so
because her own feelings had been aroused. As they were once before with
Armand Dalberg--who had calmly put her in her place, and tumbled her
schemes about her ears.

All her life there would be a weak spot in her heart for Dalberg; and,
such is the peculiarly inconsistent nature of the female, a hatred that
fed itself on his scorn of her.

She had dared much with Dalberg--and often; and always she had lost. The
Duke of Lotzen was only a means to an end: money and exquisite ease.
Left with ample wealth on his decease, she, for her excitement and to be
in affairs, had mixed in diplomacy, and had quickly become an expert in
tortuous moves of the tortuous game.

Then one day she encountered Harleston, and bested him. With a rare good
nature for a diplomat, he had taken his defeat with a smile, at the same
time observing her manifold attractions with a careful eye and an
indulgent mind for the past. Which caused her to look at him again, and
to think of him frequently; and at last to want him for her own--after a
little while. And he had appeared not averse to the wanting--after a
little while. Now, just as he was about to succumb, he was suddenly
whisked away by another woman--that woman simply a later edition of
herself: the same figure, the same poise, the same methods, the same
allurements; but younger in years, fresher, and, she admitted it to
herself, less acquainted with the ways of men. And now she had lost
him; and never would she be able to get him back. Another woman had