The exact truth was that she had been miserably
prowling about the adjacent streets, held in the neighbourhood
by some self-torturing morbidness, half thwarted helpless passion,
half triumphing hatred of the young thing she had betrayed. Up
and down the streets she had gone, round and round, wringing her
lean fingers together and tasting on her lips the salt of tears
which rolled down her cheeks--tears of torment and rage.
There was the bitterness of death in what, by a mere trick of
chance, came about. As she turned a corner telling herself for
the hundredth time that she must go home, she found herself face
to face with a splendid figure swinging furiously along. She
staggered at the sight of the tigerish rage in the white face she
recognized with a gasp. It was enough merely to behold it. He had
met with some disastrous humiliation!
As for him, the direct intervention of that Heaven whose special
care he was, had sent him a woman to punish--which, so far, was at
least one thing arranged as it should be. He knew so well how he
could punish her with his mere contempt and displeasure--as he
could lash a spaniel crawling at his feet. He need not deign to
tell her what had happened, and he did not. He merely drew back
and stood in stiff magnificence looking down at her.
"It is through some folly of yours," he dropped in a voice of
vitriol.
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