She lay back on her broad cushions.  One of the strands of her splendid hair had become loose, and after coiling over half a yard of the brocaded silk of a cushion, twisted its way down to the floor.  She lay back, pointing one finger at the face on the vase and laughing that satyr-laugh.

“We know—­we know—­we know!” she cried, and her voice was like that of a drunken woman.  “We know all—­you and I—­we know the hypocrisy—­the pretense of religion—­of honor—­duty—­a husband!  Ah, a husband! that is the funniest of all—­that husband!  We know how little we care for them all.”

She continued laughing until her cushion slipped from under her head.  She half rose to straighten it, and at that instant she caught a glimpse of her face in the center silvered panel of the Venetian mirror.  The cry of horror that broke from her at that instant seemed part of her laugh.  It would not have occurred to anyone who might have heard it that it was otherwise than consistent with the incongruity, so to speak, of the existing elements of the scene.  The hideous leer of the thing with horns, looking down at the exquisite picture of the fete champetre—­the distorted features of the woman’s face in the center of the ruby and emerald and sapphire of the Venetian mirror—­the cry of horror mixed with the laugh of the woman who mocked at religion and honor and purity—­all were consistently incongruous.

In another instant she was lying on the sofa with her face down to the cushion, trying to forget all that she had seen in the mirror.  She wept her tears on the brocaded silk for half an hour, and then she slipped from where she was lying till her knees were on the floor.  With a hand clutching each side of the cushion she got rid of her passion in prayer.

“Oh, God!  God! keep him away from me! keep him away from me!” was her prayer; and it was possibly the best that she could have uttered.  “Keep him away from me! keep him away from me!  Don’t let my soul be lost!  Keep him away from me!”

When she struggled to her feet, at last, she stood in front of the mirror once again.

She now saw a face purified of all passion by tears and prayer, where she had seen the soulless face of a Pagan’s orgy.

She went upstairs to her bed and went asleep, thanking God that she had had the strength to send him away; that she had had strength sufficient to stand where she had stood in the room, silent, while he had put his arms on her bare shoulders and kissed her on the mouth, saying “Good-by.”

She felt that she had every reason to thank God for that strength, for she knew that it had been given to her at that moment; it had not sprung from within her own heart; her heart had been crying out to him, “Stay, stay, stay!” her heart took no account of honor or purity or a husband.

Yes, she felt that the strength which had come to her at that moment had been the especial gift of God, and she was thankful to God for it.