She meant to struggle, but she had no wish that the
world should know what she was doing. Pride rose in her when she thought
of cold eyes watching the battle, cold voices commenting on it--Amalia
Wolfstein's eyes, Mr. Bry's voice, a hundred other eyes and voices. Her
quickened intellect, her woman's heart would teach her to be subtle. The
danger lay in her temper. But since the scene at Arkell House she had
thoroughly realised its impetuosity and watched it warily as one watches
an enemy. She did not intend to be ruined by anything within her. The
outside chances of life were many enough and deadly enough to deal with.
Strength and daring were needed to ward them off. The chances that had
their origin within the soul, the character--not really chances at
all--must be controlled, foreseen, forestalled.
And yet she had not douched the flame of defiance which she had felt
burning within her on the night of Pimpernel Schley's first appearance on
the London stage. She had fanned it. At the Elwyns' ball she had fanned
it. Temper had led her that night. Deliberately, and knowing perfectly
well who was her guide, she had let it lead her. She had been like a
human being who says, "To do this will be a sin. Very well, I choose to
sin. But I will sin carefully." At the Elwyns she had discovered why her
husband had not come with her. She had stayed late to please Leo Ulford.
Mr. Laycock had come in about two in the morning and had described to Leo
the festivity devised by Lord Holme in honour of Miss Schley, at which he
had just been present.
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