A little rubber at bridge was in progress.  The admiral was playing with Mrs. Coldfield and Cathewe sat opposite Hildegarde.  The latter two were losing.  She was ordinarily a skilful player, as Cathewe knew; but to-night she lost constantly, was reckless with her leads, and played carelessly into her opponents’ hands.  Cathewe watched her gravely.  Never had he seen her more beautiful; and the apprehension that she would never be his was like a hand straining over his heart.

Yes, she was beautiful; but he did not know that there was death in her eyes and death in her smile.  Once upon a time he had believed that her heart had broken; but she was learning that the heart breaks, rebreaks, and breaks again.

How many times he stood on the precipice during the dinner hour, Breitmann doubtless would never be told.  A woman scorned is an old story; still, the story goes on, retold each day.  Education may smooth the externals, but underneath the fire burns just as furiously as of old.  To this affront the average woman’s mind leaps at once to revenge; and that she does not always take it depends upon two things; opportunity, and love, which is more powerful than revenge.  Sometimes, on hot summer nights, clouds form angrily in the distance; vivid flashes dartle hither and about, which serve to intensify the evening darkness.  Thus, a similar phenomenon was taking place in Hildegarde von Mitter’s mind.  The red fires of revenge danced before her eyes, blurring the spots, on the cards, the blackness of despair crowding upon each flash.  Let him beware!  With a word she could shatter his dream; ay, and so she would.  What! sit there and let him turn the knife in her heart and receive the pain meekly?  No!  It was the thoughtless brutality with which he went about this new affair that bit so poignantly.  To show her, so indurately, that she was nothing, that, despite her magnificent sacrifice, she had never been more than a convenience, was maddening.  There was no spontaneity in his heart; his life was a calculation to which various sums were added or subtracted.  With all her beauty, intellect, genius and generosity, she had not been able to stir him as this young girl was unconsciously doing.  She held no animosity for the daughter of her host; she was clear-visioned enough to put the wrong where it belonged.

“It is your lead,” said the admiral patiently.

“Pardon me!” contritely.  The gentle reproach brought her back to the surroundings.

“It is the motion of the boat,” hazarded Cathewe, as he saw her lead the ace.  “I often find myself losing count in waiting for the next roll.”

“Mr. Cathewe is very kind,” she replied.  “The truth is, however, I am simply stupid to-night.”

Breitmann continued to speak lowly to Laura.  He was evidently amusing, for she smiled frequently.  Nevertheless, she smiled as often upon Fitzgerald.  Never a glance toward the woman who held his fortunes, as they both believed, in the hollow of her hand.  Breitmann appeared to have forgotten her existence.