ematically
artistic, with that Social Drifter. No man will ever love me again
as I was loved by that man. I wantonly played with his openly avowed
affections. I was deliberate, artistic. I was cold. I led him on
blindly. I calculated every move with mathematical accuracy. I left
nothing undone. I skillfully covered my tracks. I always told him sadly,
gently, that I did not love him, and that I never could. Yet I told him
in such a manner that, almost breathless with a new hope, he refused to
believe me, refused to listen. He was always considerate and I hated him
for his consideration. He was always thoughtful, unselfish, and alas,
always loving. Finally, after I had successfully played him for all
that he was worth--which was a great deal to me--I told him to go. I
dismissed him with scorn and without reason. Of course there had been no
love in my heart for this man, but his delicate attentions were always
intensely flattering. And once, just once, I might have yielded, but
my family, my own judgment, every thing, was against the man, and to
the end he continued to be simply a trial for my untried and newly
discovered powers. And then, perhaps the more potent reason of all,
Gerome Meadows gave uneasy indications of a desire to return. I, and
immediately, made arrangements for the full gratification of his desire.
Now was my chance. Revenge, when delayed, is all the sweeter for the
delay. The world must know of my power, and through Gerome Meadows! I
had waited long and patiently, but I had not wasted my time. I had gone
through a severe social training, and with the best results. I was an
accomplished flirt, but I was not trammeled by the always dangerous
reputation--it was not known. It was simply a rumor about town that I
might be somewhat of a trifler, but it had not been affirmed, and few
believed the idle, unauthorized rumor; it had not even reached the ears
of Gerome Meadows. He had hotly quarreled with his devilish, brown-eyed
beauty. She had dismissed him after a highly tragic scene. The details
were highly sensational--as told by her devoted partizans, and warmly
denied by his and his outraged family (principally irate mother). They
sound like the fragments of a romance written by Bulwer, and with a
liberal touch of Lucile. It was the talk of the town, and many things
were said, and a few were done. I was silent and hopeful. My triumph was
near! She had done with him, and forever. He did not cut his handsome
th