ncestors and
descendants, alike, to the third and fourth generation in the vilest,
Neapolitan argot, Charles might resort to physical force in the removal
of wailing, alms-demanding, vermin-eaten wrecks of humanity, but still
Helen asked herself only--should she go? Should she stay? Was the game
worth the candle? Was the risk, not only of social scandal, but of
possible _ennui_, worth the projected act of revenge? And worth
something more than that. For revenge, it must be owned, already took a
second place in her calculations. Worth, namely, the enjoyment of
possible conquest, the humiliation of possible defeat and rejection, by
that strangely coercive, strangely inscrutable, being, her cousin,
Dickie Calmady?

No man had ever impressed her thus. And she returned on her thought,
when first seeing him upon the terrace that morning, that she might
lose her head. Helen laughed a little bitterly. She, of all women, to
lose her head, to long and languish, to entreat affection, and to be
faithful--heaven help us, faithful!--could it ever come to that?--like
any sentimental schoolgirl, like--and the thought turned her not a
little wicked--like Katherine Calmady herself! And then, that other
woman of whom Richard had told her, with a cynical disregard of her own
claims to admiration, who on earth could she be? She reviewed those
ladies with whom gossip had coupled Richard's name. Morabita, the
famous _prima donna_, for instance. But surely, it was inconceivable
that mountain of fat and good nature, with the voice of a seraph,
granted, but also with the intellect of a frog, could ever inspire so
fantastic and sublimated a passion! And passing from these less
legitimate affairs of the heart--in which rumour accredited Richard
with being very much of a pluralist--her mind traveled back to the
young man's projected marriage with Lady Constance Decies, sometime
Lady Constance Quayle. Remembering the slow, sweet, baby-face and
gentle, heifer's eyes, as she had seen them that day at luncheon at
Brockhurst, nearly five years ago, she again laughed.--No, very
certainly there was no affinity between the glorious and naughty city
of Naples and that mild-natured, well-drilled, little, English girl!
Who was it then--who? But, whoever the fair unknown rival might be,
Helen hated her increasingly as the hours passed, regarding her as an
enemy, a creature to be exterminated, and swept off the board. Jealousy
pricked her desire of conquest. A