he with longing for the love of a man who
had spurned her, who had resisted her tenderness, remained cold to her
appeals, and had not responded to the glow of passion, which had caused
her to feel and hope that those happy olden days in Paris were not all
dead and forgotten.

How strange it all was! She loved him still. And now that she looked
back upon the last few months of misunderstandings and of loneliness,
she realised that she had never ceased to love him; that deep down in
her heart she had always vaguely felt that his foolish inanities, his
empty laugh, his lazy nonchalance were nothing but a mask; that the real
man, strong, passionate, wilful, was there still--the man she had loved,
whose intensity had fascinated her, whose personality attracted her,
since she always felt that behind his apparently slow wits there was
a certain something, which he kept hidden from all the world, and most
especially from her.

A woman's heart is such a complex problem--the owner thereof is often
most incompetent to find the solution of this puzzle.

Did Marguerite Blakeney, "the cleverest woman in Europe," really love a
fool? Was it love that she had felt for him a year ago when she married
him? Was it love she felt for him now that she realised that he still
loved her, but that he would not become her slave, her passionate,
ardent lover once again? Nay! Marguerite herself could not have told
that. Not at this moment at any rate; perhaps her pride had sealed her
mind against a better understanding of her own heart. But this she did
know--that she meant to capture that obstinate heart back again. That
she would conquer once more . . . and then, that she would never lose him
. . . . She would keep him, keep his love, deserve it, and cherish
it; for this much was certain, that there was no longer any happiness
possible for her without that one man's love.

Thus the most contradictory thoughts and emotions rushed madly through
her mind. Absorbed in them, she had allowed time to slip by; perhaps,
tired out with long excitement, she had actually closed her eyes and
sunk into a troubled sleep, wherein quickly fleeting dreams seemed but
the continuation of her anxious thoughts--when suddenly she was roused,
from dream or meditation, by the noise of footsteps outside her door.

Nervously she jumped up and listened; the house itself was as still
as ever; the footsteps had retreated. Through her wide-open window the
brilliant rays of