r a change of air, and must have what she needed packed within
an hour. She gave a few orders, clearly and concisely, and then went out
again, leaving word that if Reanda returned he should be told that she
was coming back very soon.

Clearly, she thought, he must have supposed that she was still sleeping,
and he had gone to his painting without any further thought of her.
Again she smiled, and a line of delicate cruelty was faintly shadowed
about her lips. She left the house and walked in the direction of the
Palazzetto. Reanda always came home to the midday breakfast, and it was
nearly time for him to be on his way. Gloria knew every turning which he
would take, and she hoped to meet him. Her eyes flashed in anticipation
of the contest, and she felt that he would not be able to meet them.
They would be too bright for him. There was a small mark on her cheek
still, where one of the sharp edges of the ivory slats had scratched her
fair skin, and there was a slight redness on that side, but the bright
red bar was gone. She was glad of it, as she nodded to a passing
acquaintance.

She wished to assure herself that her husband was really at the
Palazzetto, and she inquired of the porter at the great gate whether
Reanda had been seen that morning. The man said that he had come at the
usual hour, and stood aside for her to pass, but she turned from him
abruptly and went away without a word.

The blood rose in her cheeks, and her heart beat angrily. He had
attached no more importance than this to what he had done, and had gone
to his painting as though nothing had happened. He had not even tried to
see her in the morning to beg her pardon for having struck her. Strange
to say, in spite of what she herself had done, that was what most roused
her anger. She demanded the satisfaction of his asking her forgiveness,
as though she had no fault to find with herself. In comparison with his
cowardly violence to her, her leaving him for Griggs was as nothing in
her eyes.

She walked more slowly as she went homewards, and the unspoken
bitterness of her heart choked her, and the sharp words she could not
speak cut her cruelly. She compared the hand that had dared to hurt
though it had not strength to kill, with that other, dearer, gentler,
more terrible hand, which could have killed anything, but which would
rather be burned to the wrist than let one of its fingers touch her
roughly. She compared them, and she loved the one and she l