ide. It was pride that would not let her look at herself and see how
she was hurt. And pride would not let her say one word, make one effort.
It was simply not in her to bring herself to _try_ to have love given
her. And so she was left with the sordid satisfaction of the hurt she
dealt in just being. That became her reason for existence--the ugly
reason for her barren existence. She lived alone with it for so long
that she came to be of it. Her spirit seemed empty of all else. It had
kept her from everything; it had kept her from herself.

But now tonight she could strangely get to herself, and now she knew
that far from Ruth Holland not mattering her whole being had from the
first been steeped in hatred of her. Her jealousy had been of a freezing
quality; it had even frozen her power to know about herself. When, after
one little thing and then another had let her know there was love
between her husband and this girl, to go to places where Ruth Holland
was would make her numb--that was the way it was with her. Once in going
somewhere--a part of that hideous doing things together which she kept
up because it was one way of showing she was there, would continue to be
there--she and Stuart drove past the Hollands', and this girl was out in
the yard, romping with her dog, tusseling with him like a little girl.
She looked up, flushed, tumbled, panting, saw them, tried to straighten
her hair, laughed in confusion and retreated. Stuart had raised his hat
to her, trying to look nothing more than discreetly amused. But a little
later after she--his wife--had been looking from the other window as if
not at all concerned she turned her head and saw his face in the mirror
on the opposite side of the carriage. He had forgotten her; she was
taking him unawares. Up to that time she had not been sure--at least not
sure of its meaning much. But when she saw that tender little smile
playing about his mouth she knew it was true that her power to hurt him
had reduced itself to being in his way. That she should be reduced to
that made her feeling about it as ugly as the thing itself.

She did not sleep that night--after seeing Ruth Holland romping with her
dog. She had cried--and was furious that she should cry, that it could
make her cry. And furious at herself because of the feeling she had--a
strange stir of passion, a wave of that feeling which had seemed to her
unlovely even when it was desired and that it was unbearably humiliating
t