Daphne stumbled after her, consumed with angry envy, the _precieuse_ in her resenting the easy mastery of Mrs.Fairmile, and the wife in her offended by the strange beauty, the soft audacities of a woman who had once, it seemed, held Roger captive, and would, of course, like to hold him captive again.
She burned in some way to assert herself, the imperious will chafing at the slender barrier of self-control.

And some malicious god did, in fact, send an opportunity.
After tea, when Roger, in spite of efforts to confine himself to the Duchess, had been once more drawn into the orbit of Mrs.Fairmile, as she sat fingering a cigarette between the two men, and gossiping of people and politics, the butler entered, and whispered a message to the Duchess.
The mistress of the house laughed.

"Chloe! who do you think has called?
Old Marcus, of South Audley Street.

He's been at Brendon House--buying up their Romneys, I should think.

And as he was passing here, he wished to show me something.