But here Mrs. Eppingwell did a strange thing.  So this, at last, was Freda, she mused, the dancer and the destroyer of men; the woman from whose door she had been turned.  And she, too, felt the imperious creature’s nakedness as though it were her own.  Perhaps it was this, her Saxon disinclination to meet a disadvantaged foe, perhaps, forsooth, that it might give her greater strength in the struggle for the man, and it might have been a little of both; but be that as it may, she did do this strange thing.  When Mrs. McFee’s thin voice, vibrant with malice, had raised, and Freda turned involuntarily, Mrs. Eppingwell also turned, removed her mask, and inclined her head in acknowledgment.

It was another flashing, eternal second, during which these two women regarded each other.  The one, eyes blazing, meteoric; at bay, aggressive; suffering in advance and resenting in advance the scorn and ridicule and insult she had thrown herself open to; a beautiful, burning, bubbling lava cone of flesh and spirit.  And the other, calm-eyed, cool-browed, serene; strong in her own integrity, with faith in herself, thoroughly at ease; dispassionate, imperturbable; a figure chiselled from some cold marble quarry.  Whatever gulf there might exist, she recognized it not.  No bridging, no descending; her attitude was that of perfect equality.  She stood tranquilly on the ground of their common womanhood.  And this maddened Freda.  Not so, had she been of lesser breed; but her soul’s plummet knew not the bottomless, and she could follow the other into the deeps of her deepest depths and read her aright.  “Why do you not draw back your garment’s hem?” she was fain to cry out, all in that flashing, dazzling second.  “Spit upon me, revile me, and it were greater mercy than this!” She trembled.  Her nostrils distended and quivered.  But she drew herself in check, returned the inclination of head, and turned to the man.

“Come with me, Floyd,” she said simply.  “I want you now.”

“What the—­” he began explosively, and quit as suddenly, discreet enough to not round it off.  Where the deuce had his wits gone, anyway?  Was ever a man more foolishly placed?  He gurgled deep down in his throat and high up in the roof of his mouth, heaved as one his big shoulders and his indecision, and glared appealingly at the two women.

“I beg pardon, just a moment, but may I speak first with Mr. Vanderlip?” Mrs. Eppingwell’s voice, though flute-like and low, predicated will in its every cadence.

The man looked his gratitude.  He, at least, was willing enough.

“I’m very sorry,” from Freda.  “There isn’t time.  He must come at once.”  The conventional phrases dropped easily from her lips, but she could not forbear to smile inwardly at their inadequacy and weakness.  She would much rather have shrieked.

“But, Miss Moloof, who are you that you may possess yourself of Mr. Vanderlip and command his actions?”