they were not the words of the Laura Jadwin
she knew. Why was it that from the very first hours of her acquaintance
with this man, and in every circumstance of their intimacy, she had
always acted upon impulse? What was there in him that called into being
all that was reckless in her?

And for how long was she to be able to control these impulses? This
time she had prevailed once more against that other impetuous self of
hers. Would she prevail the next time? And in these struggles, was she
growing stronger as she overcame, or weaker? She did not know. She tore
the note into fragments, and making a heap of them in the pen tray,
burned them carefully.

During the week following upon this, Laura found her trouble more than
ever keen. She was burdened with a new distress. The incident of the
note to Corthell, recalled at the last moment, had opened her eyes to
possibilities of the situation hitherto unguessed. She saw now what she
might be capable of doing in a moment of headstrong caprice, she saw
depths in her nature she had not plumbed. Whether these hidden pitfalls
were peculiarly hers, or whether they were common to all women placed
as she now found herself, she did not pause to inquire. She thought
only of results, and she was afraid.

But for the matter of that, Laura had long since passed the point of
deliberate consideration or reasoned calculation. The reaction had been
as powerful as the original purpose, and she was even yet struggling
blindly, intuitively.

For what she was now about to do she could give no reason, and the
motives for this final and supreme effort to conquer the league of
circumstances which hemmed her in were obscure. She did not even ask
what they were. She knew only that she was in trouble, and yet it was
to the cause of her distress that she addressed herself. Blindly she
turned to her husband; and all the woman in her roused itself, girded
itself, called up its every resource in one last test, in one ultimate
trial of strength between her and the terrible growing power of that
blind, soulless force that roared and guttered and sucked, down there
in the midst of the city.

She alone, one unaided woman, her only auxiliaries her beauty, her wit,
and the frayed, strained bands of a sorely tried love, stood forth like
a challenger, against Charybdis, joined battle with the Cloaca, held
back with her slim, white hands against the power of the maelstrom that
swung the Nations in its grip.