could still see her,
forcing her way through the crowds of people, sometimes jostling them
upon the path, then running in the gutter for the greater freedom
of passage.

"God!" he muttered under his breath, as he turned back again.

"What is it?" asked Coralie.

"Oh, nothing," he replied; "nothing."

Mrs. Durlacher caught her lips between her teeth to crush the smile
that rose to them. Now she was sure at least that Sally's power was
broken. Her subtle use of that word "allow" had served its double
purpose. Not only had it delicately questioned the possession of that
authority which she knew he held above all things; but also, in
permitting it, the admission had been deftly drawn from him that
Sally was his mistress. She had known it before, as women do know
things. Now she was certain of it and, in her certainty, realized
that this was the moment--to strike when he was weakest. A man, shaken
free of the ties that bind him to one woman, is more ready than another
in the reaction of indifference which follows to fetter himself again
in order that life may seem less void, less hollow than he finds it.

To Coralie, then, in the dressing-room of the restaurant, as they
took off their cloaks, she said--

"My dear girl, you're making that brother of mine in love with you."

And to Traill, she jested as they said good night--

"My dear boy, considering your obligations to other women, do you
think it's fair? The girl's losing her heart to you, or will be if
she sees you again."

CHAPTER X

The congestion of the traffic, the knotted lines of carriages
conveying to their houses the thousands of people whom the theatres
had disgorged into the streets, enabled Sally to keep Mrs.
Durlacher's car in sight until it passed through the wide portals
of a restaurant in the Strand where, from the street, she could see
them dismount and pass into the building. They had gone to supper.
Traill had told her nothing about that. Then it had only been decided
since he had met them; he must be enjoying himself in the society
of these very people whose society he professed to abhor. That they
might have pressed him to accompany them so that he found it
impossible to refuse, did not enter the argument in her mind. All
thoughts tended in one direction--instinct guiding them--instinct,
drunk with the noxious ferment of jealousy, whipping her mind down
paths where no reason could follow, yet bringing her invariably to
the truth w