bungling.  The game must be brought down; on that she was determined; but there should be no bludgeon blows, no awkward carnage.  The death-stab should be given clean, with scientific skill and swiftness, and the blow once given, she would retire to her own room and let her victim find what solace she could in solitude.  Norma was not wantonly cruel; she could impale a foe, but she had no desire to witness his contortions.  After a death-scene she shrank from the grewsomeness of burial; she preferred a decent drop-curtain and the grateful darkness.

After some idle conversation, she deftly turned the talk upon New York, and the life there, and rallied all her powers to be picturesque and entertaining.  She held her listener entranced with rapid, clever sketches of society and the men and women who composed it, drawing vivid pictures of its usages, beliefs, and modes of thought and expression.  Gradually she glided into personalities, giving some of her individual experiences, and sketching in an acquaintance or two, with brilliant, caustic touches.  Soon Thorne’s name appeared, and she noticed that the listener’s interest deepened.  She spoke of him in warm terms of admiration—­dwelt on his intellect, his talents and the bright promise of his manhood; and then, observing that the brush had ceased its regular passes over the bright brown hair, and that the gray eyes were on the fire, without pause or warning she spoke of his hurried courtship and sudden marriage.  She winced involuntarily as she saw the cold, gray pallor creep slowly over the girl’s face, and noted the sudden tremor that passed through her limbs; but she steeled herself against compassion, and proceeded with her brushing and her narrative like one devoid of sight and understanding.

“I can not expect you, who know Nesbit so slightly, to be much interested in all this,” she said, watching Pocahontas through her lashes; “I fear I only bore you with my story, but my mind has been so exercised over the poor fellow’s troubles again lately, that I must unburden it to some one.  You have no personal interest in the matter, therefore you will forgive my trespassing on your courtesy—­especially when I tell you that I’ve no one at home to talk to.  Nesbit wishes particularly that his story shouldn’t get abroad here, and if I should revive it in Blanche’s mind, she might mention it to others.  Mamma would not; but unfortunately mamma and I rarely look at a thing from the same standpoint.  It’s been a relief to speak to you—­far greater than speaking to Blanche.  Blanche is so excitable.”

Yes; Blanche was excitable, Pocahontas assented absently; she was bracing her will, and steeling her nerves to endure without flinching.  Not for worlds would she—­even by the quivering of an eyelash—­let Norma see the torture she was inflicting.  She felt that Norma had an object in this disclosure, and was dimly sure that the object was hostile.  She would think it all out later; at present Norma must not see her anguish.  A woman would sooner go to the stake and burn slowly, than allow another woman, who is trying to hurt her, to know that she suffers.