During the conversation that afternoon at certain moments Lady Ingleton had almost hated Cynthia Clarke—­when Cynthia had spoken of trying to wake up Dion Leith’s mind, of his not being an intellectual man, of Jimmy Clarke’s shrinking from him because of his deterioration.  And when Cynthia had said that deterioration was “heart-rending” Lady Ingleton had quite definitely detested her.  This feeling of detestation had persisted while, in the drawing-room, Cynthia was lovingly appreciating the new acquisition of Sevres.  Lady Ingleton sickened now when she thought of the lovely hands sensitively touching, feeling, the thin china.  There really was something appalling in the delicate mentality, in the subtle taste, of a woman in whom raged such devastating physical passions.

Lady Ingleton shuddered as she remembered her conversation with her “friend.”  But it had brought about something.  It had driven away any lingering regret of hers for having spoken frankly to Father Robertson.  Cynthia was certainly tired of Dion Leith.  Was she about to sacrifice him as she had sacrificed others?  Lady Ingleton dreaded the future.  For during the interview at the Adelphi Hotel she had realized Rosamund’s innate and fastidious purity.  To forgive even one infidelity would be a tremendous moral triumph in such a woman as Rosamund.  But if Cynthia Clarke threw Dion Leith away, and he fell into promiscuous degradation, then surely Rosamund’s nature would rise up in inevitable revolt.  Even if she came to Constantinople then it would surely be too late.

Lady Ingleton had seen clearly enough into the mind of Cynthia Clarke, but there was hidden from her the greater part of a human drama not yet complete.

Combined with the ugly passion which governed her life, Mrs. Clarke had an almost wild love of personal freedom.  As much as she loved to fetter she hated to be fettered.  This hatred had led her into many difficulties during the course of her varied life, difficulties which had always occurred at moments when she wanted to get rid of people.  Ever since she had grown up there had been recurring epochs when she had been tormented by the violent desire to rid herself of some one whom she had formerly longed for, whom she had striven to bind to her.  Until now she had always eventually succeeded in breaking away from those who were beginning to involve her in weariness or to disgust her.  There had sometimes been perilous moments, painful scenes, bitter recriminations.  But by the exercise of her indomitable power of will, helped by her exceptional lack of scruple, she had always managed to accomplish her purpose.  She had always found hitherto that she was more pitiless, and therefore more efficient, than anyone opposed to her in a severe struggle of wills.  But Dion Leith was beginning to cause her serious uneasiness.  She had known from the beginning of their acquaintance that he was an exceptional man; since his tragedy she had realized that the exceptional circumstances