been on
the little, unpremeditated acts of Ditmar that she had loved to linger,
and now, in the light of Lise's testimony, of Lise's experience, she saw
them all as false. It seemed incredible, now, that she had ever deceived
herself into thinking that Ditmar meant to marry her, that he loved her
enough to make her his wife. Nor was it necessary to summon and marshal
incidents to support this view, they came of themselves, crowding one
another, a cumulative and appalling array of evidence, before which she
stood bitterly amazed at her former stupidity. And in the events of
yesterday, which she pitilessly reviewed, she beheld a deliberate and
prearranged plan for her betrayal. Had he not telephoned to Boston for
the rooms, rehearsed in his own mind every detail of what had
subsequently happened? Was there any essential difference between the
methods of Ditmar and Duval? Both were skilled in the same art, and
Ditmar was the cleverer of the two. It had only needed her meeting with
Lise, in that house, to reveal how he had betrayed her faith and her
love, sullied and besmirched them. And then came the odd reflection,--how
strange that that same Sunday had been so fateful for herself and Lise!

The agony of these thoughts was mitigated by the scorching hatred that
had replaced her love, the desire for retaliation, revenge. Occasionally,
however, that stream of consciousness was broken by the recollection of
what she had permitted and even advised her sister to do; and though the
idea of the place to which Lise was going sickened her, though she
achieved a certain objective amazement at the transformation in herself
enabling her to endorse such a course, she was glad of having endorsed
it, she rejoiced that Lise's child would not be born into a world that
had seemed--so falsely--fair and sweet, and in reality was black and
detestable. Her acceptance of the act--for Lise--was a function of the
hatred consuming her, a hatred which, growing in bigness, had made Ditmar
merely the personification of that world. From time to time her hands
clenched, her brow furrowed, powerful waves of heat ran through her, the
craving for action became so intense she could scarcely refrain from
rising in her seat.

By some odd whim of the weather the wind had backed around into the east,
gathering the clouds once more. The brilliancy of the morning had given
place to greyness, the high slits of windows seemed dirtier than ever as
the train pulle