day of the wolf-hunt,
of which no word had been spoken to her by Peter. She, too, was going
hunting, but silently and unbidden she would steal through the forest and
see this mysterious woman who played fast and loose with Peter, who loved
her apparently all the better for the game she played. What manner of
woman could do these things? What manner of woman could be indifferent to
Peter? Judith was consumingly curious to see. And, apart from this naked
and unashamed curiosity, there was the possibility that at sight of Miss
Colebrooke there might come a relaxation of Peter's tyrannous hold upon
her thoughts, her life, her very heart's blood. Would her loyalty bear the
test of seeing Peter made a fool of by a woman she could dismiss with a
shrug--a softly speaking shrew, perhaps, who played a waiting game with her
finger on the pulse of Peter's prospects? For there was talk of a
partnership with the Wetmores. Or a fool, perhaps, for all her sonneting,
for there are men who relish a weak headpiece as the chiefest ornament of
women, especially when its indeterminate vagaries boast an escape-valve
remotely connected with the fine arts. Or a devil-woman, perhaps--an
upright wanton who could think no wrong from very poverty of temperament,
yet kept him dangling. The possibility of Kitty's honesty, Judith in her
jealousy would not admit. Had she gone to the devil for him, stood and
faced the drift of opinion for his sake, that Judith could have
understood. But what was the spinning of verses to a woman's portion of
loving and being loved? Even Alida, through all her distracting anxieties,
had in her heart the thrice-blessed leaven, reasoned the woman of the
plains, who might, according to modern standards, be reckoned a trifle
primitive in her psychological deductions. And, withal, Judith was forced
to admit that there was something simple and true about a man who would
let a woman make a fool of him, whoever the woman was.

Perhaps with this hunting would end the long reign of Peter as a divinity.
Judith was tired, not in her vigorous young body, because that was strong
and healthful as the hill wind, but tired in heart and mind and life. Her
destiny had not been beautiful or happy before he invaded it, but it had
been calm, and now serenity seemed the worthiest gift of the gods. It was
not that she loved him less, but that she had so long reflected upon him
that her imagination was numb; her thoughts, arid, unfruitful as the