Did he love the mistress who did not even love him, since she had deceived him with Maitland?
And he was going to fight a duel on her account!...

Jealousy, at that moment, wrung the wife's heart with a pang still stronger than that of indignation.

She, the strong Englishwoman, so large, so robust, almost masculine in form, mentally compared herself with the supple Italian with her form so round, with her gestures so graceful, her hands so delicate, her feet so dainty; compared herself with the creature of desire, whose every movement implied a secret wave of passion, and she ceased her cry--"Ah, how could he ?"--at once.

She had a clear knowledge of the power of her rival.
It is indeed a supreme agony for an honorable woman, who loves, to feel herself thus degraded by the mere thought of the intoxication her husband has tasted in arms more beautiful, more caressing, more entwining than hers.

It was, too, a signal for the return of will to the tortured but proud soul.