eyelids, the story of the Leo Ulford's _menage_. Now, she was not
preoccupied with any regret for her own cruelty or for another woman's
misery. The egoism spoken of by Carey was not dead in her yet, but very
much alive. As she sat in the corner of the brougham, pressing herself
against the padded wall, she was angry for herself, pitiful for herself.
And she was jealous--horribly jealous. That woke up her imagination,
all the intensity of her. Where was Fritz to-night? She did not know.
Suddenly the dense ignorance in which every human being lives, and must
live to the end of time, towered above her like a figure in a nightmare.
What do we know, what can we ever know of each other? In each human
being dwells the most terrible, the most ruthless power that exists--the
power of silence.

Fritz had that power; stupid, blundering, self-contented Fritz.

She pulled the check-string and gave the order, "Home!"

In her present condition she felt unable to go into Society.

When she got to Cadogan Square she said to the footman who opened the
door:

"His lordship isn't in yet?"

"No, my lady."

"Did he say what time he would be in to-night?"

"No, my lady."

The man paused, then added:

"His lordship told Mr. Lucas not to wait up."

"Mr. Lucas" was Lord Holme's valet.

It seemed to Lady Holme as if there were a significant, even a slightly
mocking, sound in the footman's voice. She stared at him. He was a thin,
swarthy young man, with lantern jaws and a very long, pale chin. When
she looked at him he dropped his eyes.

"Bring me some lemonade to the drawing-room in ten minutes," she said.

"Yes, my lady."

"In ten minutes, not before. Turn on all the lights in the
drawing-room."

"Yes, my lady."

The man went before her up the staircase, turned on the lights, stood
aside to let her pass and then went softly down. Lady Holme rang for
Josephine.

"Take my cloak and then go to bed," she said.

Josephine took the cloak and went out, shutting the door.

"Ten minutes!" Lady Holme said to herself.

She sat down on the sofa on which she had sat for a moment alone after
her song at the dinner-party, the song murdered by Miss Filberte. The
empty, brilliantly-lit rooms seemed unusually large. She glanced round
them with inward-looking eyes. Here she was at midnight sitting quite
alone in her own house. And she wished to do something decisive,
startling as the cannon shot sometimes fired from a ship to dispers