She was ordinarily a skilful player, as Cathewe knew; but to-night she lost constantly, was reckless with her leads, and played carelessly into her opponents' hands.

Cathewe watched her gravely.

Never had he seen her more beautiful; and the apprehension that she would never be his was like a hand straining over his heart.
Yes, she was beautiful; but he did not know that there was death in her eyes and death in her smile.

Once upon a time he had believed that her heart had broken; but she was learning that the heart breaks, rebreaks, and breaks again.
How many times he stood on the precipice during the dinner hour, Breitmann doubtless would never be told.

A woman scorned is an old story; still, the story goes on, retold each day.