ceeding of hers. To
revenge herself at one stroke on both Lord and Lady Holme she had turned
to Leo Ulford, whose destiny it evidently was to be used as a weapon
against others. Long ago Lady Holme had distracted Leo's wandering
glances from the American and fixed them on herself. With the instinct
to be common of an utterly common nature Miss Schley had resolved to
awake a double jealousy--of husband and wife--by exhibiting Leo Ulford
as her _ami intime_, perhaps as the latest victim to her fascination. It
was the vulgar action of a vulgar woman, but it failed of its effect
in one direction. Lord Holme was stirred, but Lady Holme was utterly
indifferent. Miss Schley's quick instinct told her so and she was
puzzled. She did not understand Lady Holme. That was scarcely strange,
for to-day Lady Holme did not understand herself. The curious mental
detachment of which she had been conscious for some time had increased
until it began surely to link itself with something physical, something
sympathetic in the body that replied to it. She asked herself whether
the angel were spreading her wings at last. All the small, sordid
details of which lives lived in society, lives such as hers, are full,
details which assume often an extraordinary importance, a significance
like that of molecules seen through a magnifying glass, had suddenly
become to her as nothing. A profound indifference had softly invaded her
towards the petty side of life. Miss Schley, Leo Ulford, even Fritz in
his suppressed rage and jealousy of a male animal openly trampled upon,
had nothing to do with her, could have no effect on her at this moment.
She remembered that she had once sighed for release. Well, it seemed to
her as if release were at hand.

The tenor finished his romance. Again the muffled applause sounded. As
the singer came from behind the screen, wiping beads of perspiration
from his self-satisfied face, Lady Holme got up and congratulated him.
Then she crossed over to her husband.

"Why don't you go into the concert-room, Fritz? You're missing
everything, and you're only in the way here."

She did not speak unkindly. He said nothing, only cleared his throat.

"Go in," she said. "I should like to have you there while I am singing."

He cleared his throat again.

"Right you are."

He stared into her eyes with a sort of savage admiration.

"Cut her out," he said. "Cut her out! You can, and--damn her!--she
deserves it."

Then he turned and