held in her life. Even if she had seen him but seldom, the fact
that he was within call had been more of a comfort and a
necessity to her than she understood.

That he was poor, concerned her chiefly because she knew that,
although this condition could only be but temporary, it would
distress him not to have his friends around him, and to entertain
them as he had been used to do. She wondered eagerly if she
might offer to help him, but a second thought assured her that,
for a man, that sort of help from a woman was impossible.

She resented the fact that Marion was deep in his confidence;
that it was Marion who had told her of his changed condition and
of his plans. It annoyed her so acutely that she could not
remain in the room where she had seen her so complacently in
possession. And after leaving a brief note for Philip, she went
away. She stopped a hansom at the door, and told the man to
drive along the Embankment--she wanted to be quite alone, and she
felt she could see no one until she had thought it all out,
and had analyzed the new feelings.

So for several hours she drove slowly up and down, sunk far back
in the cushions of the cab, and staring with unseeing eyes at the
white enamelled tariff and the black dash-board.

She assured herself that she was not jealous of Marion, because,
in order to be jealous, she first would have to care for Philip
in the very way she could not bring herself to do.

She decided that his interest in Marion hurt her, because it