n her heart to pity him
as she realised herself. But then she turned her pity aside and
concentrated it elsewhere. The egoism of her was not dead though the
hidden woman had sprung up in vivid life. Her intellect was spurred
into energy by the suffering of her pride and of her heart. Memory was
restless and full of the passion of recall.

She remembered the night when she softly drew up the hood of her
dressing-gown above her head and, rocking herself to and fro, murmured
the "Allah-Akbar" of a philosophic fatalist--"I will live for the day. I
will live for the night." What an absurd patter that was on the lips
of a woman. And she remembered the conversation with Fritz that had
preceded her monologue. She had asked him then whether he could love
her if her beauty were taken from her. It had never occurred to her that
while her beauty still remained her spell upon him might be weakened,
might be broken. That it was broken now she did not say to herself.
All she did say to herself was that she must strike an effective blow
against this impertinent woman. She had some pride but not enough to
keep her passive. She was not one of those women who would rather lose
all they have than struggle to keep it. She meant to struggle, but she
had no wish that the world should know what she was doing. Pride rose
in her when she thought of cold eyes watching the battle, cold voices
commenting on it--Amalia Wolfstein's eyes, Mr. Bry's voice, a hundred
other eyes and voices. Her quickened intellect, her woman's heart would
teach her to be subtle. The danger lay in her temper. But since the
scene at Arkell House she had thoroughly realised its impetuosity and
watched it warily as one watches an enemy. She did not intend to be
ruined by anything within her. The outside chances of life were many
enough and deadly enough to deal with. Strength and daring were needed
to ward them off. The chances that had their origin within the soul,
the character--not really chances at all--must be controlled, foreseen,
forestalled.

And yet she had not douched the flame of defiance which she had felt
burning within her on the night of Pimpernel Schley's first appearance
on the London stage. She had fanned it. At the Elwyns' ball she had
fanned it. Temper had led her that night. Deliberately, and knowing
perfectly well who was her guide, she had let it lead her. She had been
like a human being who says, "To do this will be a sin. Very well,
I choose to sin