plotting in the darkness against her, and fighting desperately with
such weak weapons as she possessed. It was characteristic that she
did not blame herself for her failure; it was the baseness of van
Tuiver, his inability to appreciate sincere devotion, his
unworthiness of her love. And this, just after she had been naively
telling me of her efforts to poison his mind against Sylvia while
pretending to admire her! But I made allowances for Claire at this
moment--realizing that the situation had been one to overstrain any
woman's altruism.

She had failed in her subtleties, and there had followed scenes of
bitter strife between the two. Sylvia, the cunning huntress, having
pretended to relent, van Tuiver had gone South to his wooing again,
while Claire had stayed at home and read a book about the poisoners
of the Italian renaissance. And then had come the announcement of
the engagement, after which the royal conqueror had come back in a
panic, and sent embassies of his male friends to plead with Claire,
alternately promising her wealth and threatening her with
destitution, appealing to her fear, her cupidity, and even to her
love. To all of which I listened, thinking of the wide-open,
innocent eyes of the picture, and shedding tears within my soul. So
must the gods feel as they look down upon the affairs of mortals,
seeing how they destroy themselves by ignorance and folly, seeing
how they walk into the future as a blind man into a yawning abyss.

I gave, of course, due weight to the sneers of Claire. Perhaps the
innocent one really had set a trap--had picked van Tuiver out and
married him for his money. But even so, I could hope that she had
not known what she was doing. Surely it had never occurred to her
that through all the days of her triumph she would have to eat and