There being none, there was but one course, and that was to go out as though she had not seen him.

He had not even been moved at all at seeing her; but with her it was different.

She was disturbed--in her vanity?
In her peace?
In her pride?
In her senses?
In her heart?
In any, or each, or all?
But she was disturbed: her equilibrium was shaken.

He had scorched her soul by that letter to her, so gently cold, so incisive, so subtly cruel, so deadly in its irony, so final--so final.
She was ashamed, and no one else in the world but Ian Stafford could so have shamed her.

Power had been given to her, the power of great riches--the three millions had been really four--and everything and everybody, almost, was deferential towards her.