Alone in her room, Mrs. Taine—­her headache being wholly conventional—­gave herself unreservedly to the thoughts that she could not, under the eyes of others, entertain without restraint.  She was seated at a window that looked down upon the carefully graded levels of the envying Fairlanders and across the wide sweep of the valley below to the mountains which, from that lofty point of vantage, could be seen from the base of their lowest foothills to the crests of their highest peaks.  But the woman who lived on the Heights of Fairlands saw neither the homes of their neighbors, the busy valley below, nor the mountains that lifted so far above them all.  Her thoughts were centered upon what, to her, was more than these.

When night was gathering over the scene, her maid entered softly.  Mrs. Taine dismissed the woman with a word, telling her not to return until she rang.  Leaving the window, after drawing the shades close, she paced the now lighted room, in troubled uneasiness of mind.  Here and there, she paused to touch or handle some familiar object—­a photograph in a silver frame, a book on the carved table, the trifles on her open desk, or an ornamental vase on the mantle—­then moved restlessly away to continue her aimless exercise.  When the silence was rudely broken by the sound of a knock at her door, she stood still—­a look of anger marring the well-schooled beauty of her features.

The knock was repeated.

With an exclamation of impatient annoyance, she crossed the room, and flung open the door.

Without leave or apology, her husband entered; and, as he did so, was seized by a paroxysm of coughing that sent him reeling, gasping and breathless, to the nearest chair.

Mrs. Taine stood watching her husband coldly, with a curious, speculative expression on her face that she made no attempt to hide.  When his torture was abated—­for the time—­leaving him exhausted and trembling with weakness, she said coldly, “Well, what do you want?  What are you doing here?”

The man lifted his pallid, haggard face and, with a yellow, claw-like hand wiped the beads of clammy sweat from his forehead; while his deep-sunken eyes leered at her with an insane light.

The woman was at no pains to conceal her disgust.  In her voice there was no hint of pity.  “Didn’t Marie tell you that I wished to be alone?”

“Of course,” he jeered in his rasping whisper, “that’s why I came.”  He gave a hideous resemblance to a laugh, which ended in a cough—­and, again, he drew his skinny, shaking hand across his damp forehead “That’s the time that a man should visit his wife, isn’t it?  When she is alone.  Or”—­he grinned mockingly—­“when she wishes to be?”

She regarded him with open scorn and loathing.  “You unclean beast!  Will you take yourself out of my room?”

He gazed at her, as a malevolent devil might gloat over a soul delivered up for torture.  “Not until I choose to go, my dear.”