her attention on the stage once
more, though all the time that her eyes and ears were absorbing the
shifting scenes and brilliant dialogue of the play a little, persistent
inner voice at the back of her brain kept repeating Diana's nonchalant
"_I really don't see very much of her nowadays_," and querying
irrepressibly, "_Why not_?"

Meanwhile, Diana, unconscious of the uneasy curiosity she had awakened
in the mind of Joan, was watching the progress of the play intently.
How designedly it was written around Adrienne de Gervais--calculated to
give every possible opportunity to a fine emotional actress! Her lips
closed a little more tightly together as the thought took hold of her.
The author must have studied Adrienne, watched her every mood, learned
every twist of her temperament, to have portrayed a character so
absolutely suited to her as that of Mrs. Fleming. And how could a man
know a woman's soul so well unless--unless it were the soul of the
woman he loved? That was it; that was the explanation of all those
things which had puzzled, and bewildered her for so long. And the
author was her husband!

Diana, staring down from her box at that exquisite, breathing
incarnation of grace on the stage below, felt that she hated Adrienne.
She had never hated any one before, and the intensity of her feeling
frightened her. Since a few months ago, strange, deep emotions had
stirred within her--a passion of love and a passion of hatred such as
in the days of her simple girlhood she would not have believed to be
possible to any ordinary well-brought-up young Englishwoman. That Max
was capable of a fierce heat of passion, she knew. But then, he was
not all English; wilder blood ran in his veins. She could imagine his
killing a man if driven by the lash of passionate jealousy. But she
had never pictured herself obsessed by hate of a like quality.

And yet, now, as her eyes followed Adrienne's slender figure, with its
curious little air of hauteur that always set her so apart from other
women, moving hither and thither on the stage, her hands clenched
themselves fiercely, and her grey eyes dilated with the intensity of
her hatred. Almost--almost she could understand how men and women
killed each other in the grip of a jealous love. . . .

The play was ended. Adrienne had bowed repeatedly in response to the
wild enthusiasm of the audience, and of a sudden a new cry mingled with
the shouts and clapping.

"Author! Auth