oathed the
other, with all her heart. And with that same hand Reanda, at that same
moment, was painting some goddess's face, and it had forgotten whose
divinely lovely cheek it had struck. It was painting unless, perhaps, it
lay in Francesca's. But Gloria had not forgotten, and she would repay
before the day darkened.

Her husband, since he was calm enough to go to his work, would come home
for his breakfast when he was hungry. Gloria went back to her room and
superintended the packing of what she needed. But she was not so calm as
she had been half an hour earlier, and she waited impatiently for her
husband's return and for the last scene of the drama. When the things
were packed, she had the box taken out to the hall and sent for a cab.
As she foresaw the situation, she would leave the house forever as soon
as the last word was spoken. Then she went into the drawing-room and
waited, watching the clock.

There, on the mantelpiece, lay the broken fan, where the fragments had
been placed by the servant. Gloria looked at them, handled them
curiously, and felt her cheek softly with her hand. He must have struck
her with all his might, she thought, to have hurt her as he had with so
light a weapon; and the whole quarrel came back to her vividly, in every
detail, and with every spoken word.

She could not regret what she had done. With an attempt at
self-examination, which was only a self-justification, she tried to
recall the early days when she had loved her husband, and to conjure up
the face with the gentle light in it. She failed, of course, and the
picture that came disgusted her and was unutterably contemptible and
weak and full of cowardice. The face of Paul Griggs came in its place a
moment later, and she heard in her ears the deep, stern voice, quavering
with strength rather than with weakness, and she could feel the arms she
loved about her, pressing her almost to pain, able to press her to death
in their love-clasp.

The hands of the clock went on, and Reanda did not come. She was
surprised to find how long she had waited, and with a revulsion of
feeling she rose to her feet. If he would not come, she would not wait
for him. She was hungry, too. It was absurd, perhaps, but she would not
eat his bread nor sit at his table, not even alone. She went to her
writing-table and wrote a note to him, short, cruel, and decisive. She
wrote that if her father had been in Rome she would have gone to him for
protection. A