If he went on as he had begun, the probability was that he would succeed.
Did she, Madeleine Verrier, wish him to succeed?
Daphne had grown tragically necessary to her, in this world of American society--in that section of it, at any rate, in which she desired to move, where the widow of Leopold Verrier was always conscious of the blowing of a cold and hostile breath.

She was not excluded, but she was not welcome; she was not ostracized, but she had lost consideration.
There had been something picturesque and appealing in her husband; something unbearably tragic in the manner of his death.

She had braved it out by staying in America, instead of losing herself in foreign towns; and she had thereby proclaimed that she had no guilty sense of responsibility, no burden on her conscience; that she had only behaved as a thousand other women would have behaved, and without any cruel intention at all.

But she knew all the same that the spectators of what had happened held her for a cruel woman, and that there were many, and those the best, who saw her come with distaste and go without regret; and it was under that knowledge, in spite of indomitable pride, that her beauty had withered in a year.
And at the moment when the smart of what had happened to her--personally and socially--was at its keenest; when, after a series of quarrels, she had separated herself from the imperious mother who had been her evil genius throughout her marriage, she had made friends, unexpectedly, owing to a chance meeting at a picture-gallery, with Daphne Floyd.

Some element in Daphne's nature had attracted and disarmed her.