In the course of that night Roger Barnes's fate was decided, while he lay, happily sleeping, beside his wife.

Daphne, as soon as she heard his regular breathing, opened the eyes she had only pretended to close, and lay staring into the shadows of the room, in which a nightlight was burning.

Presently she got up softly, put on a dressing-gown, and went to the fire, which she noiselessly replenished; drawing up a chair, she sank back into it, her arms folded.

The strengthening firelight showed her small white face, amid the masses of her dark hair.
Her whole being was seething with passionate and revengeful thought.

It was as though with violent straining and wrenching the familiar links and bulwarks of life were breaking down, and as if amid the wreck of them she found herself looking at goblin faces beyond, growing gradually used to them, ceasing to be startled by them, finding in them even a wild attraction and invitation.
[Illustration: "Her whole being was seething with passionate and revengeful thought."] So Roger had lied to her.