Two moons had not waxed and waned before he was having what now I am sure must have been the one passionate love of his life.  This was unexpected; a blow in the dark to my pride, and, alas!  I fear, also, to my heart.  It was the death-knell to my better nature.  It gave direction to the formation of my social life.  From that moment I am conscious of a change, and for the worse, in my hitherto attractive nature.  It was attractive on account of its sweetness and its purity.  It was a nature which, until then, had known nothing of the hot, passionate love of the world and of all things worldly.  The formative period was gone, and with it most that was good.

It was hard to have a man court me, not exactly for my money, but because I chanced to be the nearest fruit in reach and because his crafty mother thought it would be an excellent arrangement!  Especially hard, because in spite of myself I had for him a very tender feeling.  My sudden loss and quick appropriation by another created within me an unjust resentment; my resentment was silent and unnoticed, but it filled me with a desire for revenge.  This was the evil which crept into my life; this was the element which warped my better nature, made me grasping, worldly, hard to please.  This sudden desertion placed me in a false position.  People said that Gerome had never loved me—­simply trifling.  The friends of that other woman, a great brown-eyed beauty with the subtle charm and fatal fascination of a devil most lovely, made it appear that of course Gerome Meadows had never loved me—­why should he?  He cowardly held his peace and let them prattle; he was kneeling low before the shrine of his own selection; he was in open rebellion against his irate mother, who did not approve of this brown-eyed beauty.

I was left alone and let alone.  But fate was not altogether against me.  Death did me a friendly service.  He called to her last resting-place an ancient dame who had severely played the role of grandmother and mother-in-law in our large establishment—­unloved, tyrannical, unregretted.  But custom bade us mourn.  Then was my opportunity.  Our doors were closed, but I was not idle—­I studied myself, and, retrospectively, all of my friends.  After several months of hard training and much serious thought I found myself ready.  I had established my little theories about life, and their intricate relations to myself, and cast about carefully for something upon which I might with safety and good results practice upon.  Most of my friends were tame, uninteresting, and none of them just then my lovers.  I resorted to many of the little airs and tricks of social trade.  I soon found myself doing quite a brisk little business in a quiet way; quite quiet, for I still wore light mourning and, of course, was not going out; we all thought it best to pay the highest possible respect to the late but unlamented grandmother.  I soon gained the reputation—­which I bravely sustained—­of