He lay peacefully sleeping, the noble outline of brow and features still nobler in the dim light which effaced all the weaker, emptier touches.

Daphne felt rising within her that mingled passion of the jealous woman, which is half love, half hate, of which she had felt the first stirrings in her early jealousy of Elsie Maddison.

It was the clutch of something racial and inherited--a something which the Northerner hardly knows.

She had felt it before on one or two occasions, but not with this intensity.

The grace of Chloe Fairmile haunted her memory, and the perfection, the corrupt perfection of her appeal to men, men like Roger.
[Illustration: "In the dead of night Daphne sat up in bed, looking at the face and head of her husband beside her on the pillow."] She must wring from him--she must and would--a much fuller history of his engagement.