m. Men like Lord Holme are most easily jealous of the men who most
closely resemble them. Their conceit leads them to put an exaggerated
value upon their own qualities in others, upon the resemblance to their
own physique exhibited by others.

Leo Ulford was rather like a younger and coarser Lord Holme. In him Lady
Holme recognised an effective weapon for the chastisement, if not for
the eventual reclamation, of her husband. It was characteristic of her
that this was the weapon she chose, the weapon she still continued to
rely on even after her conversation with Robin Pierce. Her faith in
white angels was very small. Perpetual contact with the world of to-day,
with life as lived by women of her order, had created within her far
other faiths, faiths in false gods, a natural inclination to bow the
knee in the house of Rimmon rather than before the altars guarded by the
Eternities.

And then--she knew Lord Holme; knew what attracted him, what stirred
him, what moved him to excitement, what was likely to hold him. She felt
sure that he and such men as he yield the homage they would refuse to
the angel to the siren. Instead of seeking the angel within herself,
therefore, she sought the siren. Instead of striving to develope that
part of her which was spiritual, she fixed all her attention upon that
part of her which was fleshly, which was physical. She neglected the
flame and began to make pretty patterns with the ashes.

Robin came to bid her good-bye before leaving London for Rome. The
weeping woman was gone. He looked into the hard, white face of a woman
who smiled. They talked rather constrainedly for a few minutes. Then
suddenly he said:

"Once it was a painted window, now it's an iron shutter."

He got up from his chair and clasped his hands together behind his back.

"What on earth do you mean?" she asked, still smiling.

"Your face," he answered. "One could see you obscurely before. One can
see nothing now."

"You talk great nonsense, Robin. It's a good thing you're going back to
Rome."

"At least I shall find the spirit of beauty there," he said, almost with
bitterness. "Over here it is treated as if it were Jezebel. It's trodden
down. It's thrown to the dogs."

"Poor spirit!"

She laughed lightly.

"Do you understand what they're saying of you?" he went on.

"Where?"

"All over London."

"Perhaps."

"But--do you?"

"Perhaps I don't care to."

"They're saying--'Poor thing! But it's her own f