she realized suddenly that she was not going to feel wicked. She was
surprised and even a trifle horror-stricken by her insensibility. Then,
fairly faced by it, she came to the conclusion that, in a woman cursed
with such a brute of a husband, such insensibility was not only natural,
it was even proper.

Her woman's craving to be loved and to love was the strongest of her
emotions, and it had gone unsatisfied for so long. Her husband had
killed, or rather extirpated, her fondness for him before they had been
married a month. She was inclined to believe that she had never really
loved him at all. He had certainly ceased to love her before they had
been married a fortnight, if, indeed, he had ever loved her at all. She
had no child; she was an orphan without sisters or brothers. Her husband
let her see but little of the friends who were fond of her. She began to
suspect that her conscience did not reproach her because she had merely
acted on her natural right to love and be loved. This conclusion brought
her mind again to the consideration of Antony Grey, and again she let her
thoughts dwell on him.

The gong, informing her that it was time to dress for dinner, interrupted
this pleasant occupation. She had her bath, put herself into the hands of
her maid, Elizabeth Twitcher, and resumed her meditation. She was at
once so deeply absorbed in it that she did not observe her maid's sullen
and depressed air.

She was presently interrupted again, and in a manner far more violent and
startling than the summons of the gong. The door was jerked open, and her
refreshed husband strode into the room.

"I know all about your little game, madam!" he cried. "You've been