race only in the backwaters of their
homes, embarked timidly to their disgrace and peril. What wife of a
husband with two hundred a year could row against the black-haired
woman and keep pride of place?

As Marie wondered things which all her sisterhood have long ached
over, she saw Osborn looking at the black-haired woman too, and in his
eyes there was a light of admiration, a keenness, a speculation which
drew the tired lines from his face and left it eager once more. It was
the male look which once he had looked only for her. With a heart
beating sharply she recognised and wanted it again, but she felt
strangely impotent. She in her dyed gown, her _gamin_ of a hat,
with her spoiled hands and thin cheeks--and that tall, rounded beauty
with all her life and vivacity, undrained, throbbing in her from toes
to finger-tips! What a comparison!

Vain and profitless was the unequal competition. She felt one moment
as if, should it come to a struggle, she would relinquish it in sheer
despair; the next, as if she would fight, teeth and nails, body and
brains, for her inalienable rights over this man. All the while these
emotions surged up in her, and ebbed and flowed in again, her
intelligence told her the wild absurdity of such supposition. The
raven woman was a stranger; and socially, to all appearance, she must
always remain so. Yet Marie could not still the passionate unrest of
her heart without taking her husband's eyes from the table where two
obsequious men adored a goddess.

She drummed her hard finger-tips sharply on the table.

"Osborn, do you know her?"

"Know her? No." He added carelessly: "I wish I did."

Marie said in a voice which she tried hard to keep detached: "Why? Oh,
yes.... I--I suppose she's the type men would admire very much."

"Well, _you_ were admiring her a few minutes ago."

"In--in a way I was. I mean, she's so smooth, so--so well-kept, and
her frock is lovely, with those diamond shoulder-straps and all that
black tulle. I thought--you stared as if you knew her."

"I hope I shouldn't stare at any woman because I knew her. As a matter
of fact, I believe I know who she is; she's an actress; bound to
succeed if she takes the right line, I should think. Just now she's
got six lines to speak in that new piece of Mutro's. You know--what's
it called?"

"What's her name?"

"Roselle Dates, I think."

Osborn looked at his wife solicitously.

"I'm afraid you're a bit tired, dear; you're getti