f the whole affair she had altered her
opinion, and had deliberately set aside all thoughts of Phil. So
entirely had she identified herself with the woman whom Francis loved,
that she had ceased to allow her a separate individuality at all. She,
Philippa, was in effect that woman, as she was in reality the woman who
loved him. His allusions to Phil had never troubled her up to the
present, save, of course, that they required careful answering.
Marion's plain speaking had glanced off the armour of her security
without even denting it--why should she think of it now?

It was so dreadful to be jealous--she had always considered jealousy a
vulgar failing--and her face flushed with shame and humiliation that
she, who had always prided herself upon being above petty weakness,
should harbour so despicable a sentiment, and that of a dead woman.
And yet she could only acknowledge honestly that it was torture to her
to hear Francis speak of Phil in terms of such affection. Now that
this odious whisper had made itself heard, how could she submit to his
embrace? Could she ever forget? What could she do? Her deep,
passionate love craved for evidences of his in return. Was this
horrible ghost always to stand between them?

She paced up and down the room, striving with all her might to
straighten out this abominable coil. Of all the pains to which poor
human nature is liable, and not a few are self-inflicted, none is
sharper than jealousy. It has been well described as the child of love
and the parent of hate.

But for all that at the moment Philippa was suffering acutely, she was
by no means prepared to permit this vile thing to conquer. She would
fight it and root it out. It had come upon her so suddenly. What was
the cause? Was it merely a freak of that incomprehensible phenomenon
the human mind that had twisted the chain of her affection into so
mischievous a knot, or merely a figment of the brain springing from
inner consciousness to torment her with devilish ingenuity? or did the
fault lie with her in some simpler, more tangible way? Was it possible
that her love was not the great and boundless force that she had
imagined, but weak, in that it could not dispel and overcome any
thought that dimmed its purity--such a poor selfish thing that she
allowed an idea to influence her to its despite?

She had been so utterly happy--had she been thinking only of herself?
But no, Francis had been happy too. Had Marion be