On the morrow a letter from Sibyl came to Pinner.  She was grieved to hear that Alma had called during her absence.  Was it anything of importance, or would it keep till she and Harvey came to dine on Saturday?  ’I have been down to Weymouth —­ not to enjoy myself, but to see my mother.  She says she is very ill, and thinks it monstrous that I don’t feel inclined to devote myself to the care of her.  Her illness, I am sure, is nothing but discontent and bad temper, just because she feels herself dropping out of society.  She must get used to it.  In any case, we could never endure each other; and how can I be expected to make any sacrifice for a mother who never gave me an hour of motherly care from the day of my birth?  But you know all about this, and don’t want to hear of it again just when you are so busy.  If there is anything in the world I can do for you, let me know at once.’

But for her conversation with Mrs. Strangeways, it would not have occurred to Alma to doubt the truth of what Sibyl wrote; as it was, she tortured herself with dark surmises.  Jealousy without love, a passion scarcely intelligible to the ordinary man, is in woman common enough, and more often productive of disaster than the jealousy which originates in nobler feeling.  To suspect that she was the plaything of Sibyl’s subtlety, and that Redgrave smiled at her simplicity in never having discovered an obvious rival, fired her blood to the fever point.  She could no longer balance probabilities; all the considerations which hitherto declared for Sibyl’s innocence lost their weight.  Her overexcited mind, her impaired health, were readily receptive of such poison as distilled from the lips of Mrs. Strangeways.  What she now desired was proof.  Only let evidence be afforded her, cost what it might!  After that, she saw her way.

No!  Hugh Carnaby was assuredly not one of the men who wink at their wives’ dishonour, nor one of the men who go slinking for a remedy to courts of law —­ or she mistook him strangely

At receipt of the expected note from Porchester Terrace —­ it said merely, ‘Pray be here, if possible, at three tomorrow afternoon’ —­ she quivered with anticipation of seeing Redgrave.  How it was to come about, she did not ask, but Redgrave should not part from her before she had obtained light upon his relations with Sibyl.  She believed herself irresistible if she chose to put forth all her power.  With two men, dangerous both of them, she had played the game of her own interests, played it safely, and for a long time; she made them her instruments, mocking at their hopes, holding them at arm’s-length, in spite of all their craft and their vehemence.  Only a very clever woman could do this.  In giddiness of self-admiration, she felt everything to be possible.  Boldness was necessary —­ far more boldness than she had yet dared to use.  The rivalry of such a woman as Sibyl could not be despised; it threatened her ambitions.  But in the struggle now to be decided she had a supreme advantage; for Sibyl, having gained her object, assuredly had paid its price.  Hence her pretended absorption in study, hence the revival of her friendliness; what were these things but blinds to mislead the only woman whose observation she had much reason to fear?