he pivots upon which these things turned! There was something more
than a treasure in the balance. Well, M. Ferraud had told him to wait.
There was nothing else for him to do.

A little rubber at bridge was in progress. The admiral was playing
with Mrs. Coldfield and Cathewe sat opposite Hildegarde. The latter
two were losing. She was ordinarily a skilful player, as Cathewe knew;
but to-night she lost constantly, was reckless with her leads, and
played carelessly into her opponents' hands. Cathewe watched her
gravely. Never had he seen her more beautiful; and the apprehension
that she would never be his was like a hand straining over his heart.

Yes, she was beautiful; but he did not know that there was death in her
eyes and death in her smile. Once upon a time he had believed that her
heart had broken; but she was learning that the heart breaks, rebreaks,
and breaks again.

How many times he stood on the precipice during the dinner hour,
Breitmann doubtless would never be told. A woman scorned is an old
story; still, the story goes on, retold each day. Education may smooth
the externals, but underneath the fire burns just as furiously as of
old. To this affront the average woman's mind leaps at once to
revenge; and that she does not always take it depends upon two things;
opportunity, and love, which is more powerful than revenge. Sometimes,
on hot summer nights, clouds form angrily in the distance; vivid
flashes dartle hither and about, which serve to intensify the evening
darkness. Thus, a similar phenomenon was taking place in Hildegarde
von Mitter's mind. The red fires of revenge danced before her eyes,
blurring the spots, on the cards, the blackness of despair crowding
upon each flash. Let him beware! With a word she could shatter his
dream; ay, and so she would. What! sit there and let him turn the
knife in her heart and receive the pain meekly? No! It was the
thoughtless brutality with which he went about this new affair that bit
so poignantly. To show her, so indurately, that she was nothing, that,
despite her magnificent sacrifice, she had never been more than a
convenience, was maddening. There was no spontaneity in his heart; his
life was a calculation to which various sums were added or subtracted.
With all her beauty, intellect, genius and generosity, she had not been
able to stir him as this young girl was unconsciously doing. She held
no animosity for the daughter of her host; she