could not understand it,
and the protecting shield that overspread that same vanity, and gave it
freedom to be vain beyond all bounds. She would not have admitted that
she loved the man. It was her nature to play upon his pity with the
wounds her love for her husband had suffered. Yet she knew that if she
were free she should marry him, because she could not resist him, and
there was pleasure in the idea that she controlled so irresistible a
force. The contrast between him and Reanda was ever before her, and
since she had learned how weak genius could be, the comparison was
enormously in favour of the younger man.

As Reanda stood there before the fire that evening, she despised him,
and her heart rebelled against his nature. His nervousness, his
trembling hands, his almost evident fear of being questioned, were
contemptible. He was like a hunted animal, she thought. Two hours
earlier her friend had stood there, solid, leonine, gladiatorial,
dominating her with his square white face, and still, shadowy eyes,
quietly stretching to the flames two hands that could have torn her in
pieces,--a man imposing in his stern young sadness, almost solemn in his
splendid physical dignity.

She looked at Reanda, and her lip curled with scorn of herself for
having loved such a thing. It was long since she had seen the gentle
light in his face which had won her heart two years ago. She was
familiar with his genius, and it no longer surprised her into
overlooking his frailty. His fame no longer flattered her. His
gentleness was gone, and had left, not hardness nor violence, in its
place, but a sort of irritable palsy of discontent. That was what she
called it as she watched him.

"You used to kiss me when you came home," she said suddenly, leaning far
back in her chair.

Mechanically he turned his head. The habit was strong, and she had
reminded him of it. He did not wish to quarrel, and he did not reason.
He moved a step to her side and bent down to kiss her forehead. The
automatic conjugality of the daily kiss might have a good effect. That
was what he thought, if he thought at all.

But she put up her hands suddenly, and thrust him back rudely.

"No," she said. "That sort of thing is not worth much, if I have to
remind you to do it."

Her lip curled again. His high shoulders went up, and he turned away.

"You are hard to please," he said, and the words were as mechanical as
the action that had preceded them.

"It cannot