s.

But Marie went in again very quickly and shut the door. She stood with
her hands clenched and her breast heaving, tears running unchecked
down her cheeks.

She stood on tiptoe to peer into the glass over the mantel, and the
storm in her face quickened the storm in her heart. Raging jealousy
entered and possessed her. It whirled about like a tornado, scattering
before it all that was orderly, that was lesser and weaker than
itself. Marie Kerr was taken up in the grip of it, and driven along
upon a headlong course which she could not pause to consider.

As she looked at herself in the glass, she cried aloud furiously: "No
one shall ever take what is mine!"

Little pulses began to hammer in her, which had not so hammered since
Osborn started upon his joy-year. No more could she bear contemplation
of Julia and her delight. She ran along the corridor to her room,
calling to the maid:

"You'll have to take baby out this morning; and do the shopping; and,
oh! _everything_. I've got to go out, and I don't know when I'll
be back."

With the door of the pink bedroom shut upon her, she dressed herself
with trembling speed. Her new black velvet suit, her furs, her
violets, her amethyst earrings, her silk stockings, and suede shoes
and white gloves! Thank God for clothes when a woman was out upon the
chase!

She whispered with an anger that was fiendish; that rose from its dust
right back from the age of barbarism, and came at her call:

"No one shall take what is mine!"

She swept money lavishly into her bag; no expenses of locomotion were
going to stand in her way. She flew down the cold grey stairs and out
into the street. Because the Tube would be quicker than a cab, she
travelled upon it; and people looked at her fevered cheeks, her
shining eyes, wondering what drove this lovely woman, and upon what
errand. Excitement beautified her and gave to her a transcendent
quality which drew all eyes.

Uplifted as she was, yet she noticed this homage, and her woman's soul
leapt, exulting. It was like applause; like a great voice encouraging,
cheering her on. It gave her pride and the supreme vanity to pursue
her way.

She left the Tube at Charing Cross, and drove in a taxicab to her
husband's place of business. One or two urbane men, strangers to her,
hurried forward as she alighted from the cab, inquiring her pleasure,
and she said, smiling: "I want my husband; I'm Mrs. Kerr."

As she said "My husband," delight took