She had never felt his artist-life was to be the only note of his career.

When, therefore, in the West she read a telegram in a newspaper announcing his candidature, she guessed the suddenness of his decision.

When she read it, she spread the paper on the table, smoothed it as though it were a beautiful piece of linen, then she stretched out her hands in happy benediction.

Like most of her sex, she loved the thrill of warfare.
There flashed the feeling, however, that it would be finer sport if Carnac and Tarboe were to be at war, instead of Carnac and Barouche.

It was curious she never thought of Carnac but the other man came throbbing into sight--the millionaire, for he was that now.
In one way, this last move of Carnac's had the elements of a master-stroke.