A clock below struck four. She went back into the bedroom and sank into
an armchair.
A slight sense of confusion floated over her mind for a moment, like a
cloud. She was not accustomed to scenes. There had been one certainly
when Rupert Carey was forbidden to come to the house any more, but it had
been brief, and she had not been present at it. She had only heard of it
afterwards. Lord Holme had been angry then, and she had rather liked his
anger. She took it as, in some degree, a measure of his attachment to
her. And then she had had no feeling of being in the wrong or of
humiliation. She had been charming to Carey, as she was charming to all
men. He had lost his head. He had mistaken the relations existing between
her and her husband, and imagined that such a woman as she was must be
unhappily mated with such a man as Lord Holme. The passionate desire to
console a perfectly-contented woman had caused him to go too far, and
bring down upon himself a fiat of exile, which he could not defy since
Lady Holme permitted it to go forth, and evidently was not rendered
miserable by it. So the acquaintance with Rupert Carey had ceased, and
life had slipped along once more on wheels covered with india-rubber
tyres.
And now she had renewed the acquaintance publicly and with disastrous
results.
As she sat there she began to wonder at herself, at the strength of her
temper, the secret violence of her nature.
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