At a late hour that night Lillian Stuart sat before the low dressing-table in her cozy room, reviewing the events of the past week. The face which the mirror reflected was clouded, the eyes somber and full of fire, for the consciousness of defeat was upon her. As yet, however, no thought of capitulation occurred to her. Farr's indifference, his evident love for another, but deepened her love for him, stinging it into a passion that was well-nigh overmastering her. The difficulties in her path lent new zest to the struggle, rousing within her heart an insatiable desire for conquest. Possession had ever palled upon her. She had loved Farr, but as an accepted lover he had wearied her, and her love for him was not strong enough to drown the voice of worldly wisdom and prudence. To be sure, in those days he was hardly more than a boy, poor and unknown, whereas to-day he was a man well versed in the world's ways, liberally supplied with the world's goods, and with the respect and esteem of his fellow-men, yet preserving the same sweet, magnetic personality which long ago had made such a deep impression on her somewhat fickle heart. These considerations naturally had weight with her, but the secret of her determination lay not in these, but in the obstacles to be surmounted, the flattering assurance that her power could not be foiled. Had she been quite honest with herself she must have acknowledged that once the victory gained the charm would be forever broken. As Farr's wife she would be a thoroughly wretched woman. Knowing full well his hatred of an untruth, his contempt for a deception, his passionate anger at an injustice, did she not dream what a death to his soul a union with her would have been? Alas! she herself had revealed to him the shallowness of her nature, the pettiness of her ambitions, the faithlessness of her heart. The lesson was a bitter one but he had learned it well, and, deep in her soul, Lillian Stuart knew that never again would he give his love unworthily. She hated Jean Lawrence, yet she appreciated her purity and gentleness, the fineness of her nature, the almost exalted bent of her mind. But this appreciation did not soften her heart, nor weaken her determination. Jean had balked her, and Jean must suffer. The face in the mirror before her grew hard; there were rigid lines about the mouth, the wonderful eyes gleamed strangely bright. "I love him. I have always loved him. She shall not have him. It is the one satisfaction that is left me if all else fails." Sharp upon these thoughts came a tap upon the door, and Helen Lawrence entered. A soft wrapper enveloped her slender frame, and her hair hung loose upon her shoulders. "I wanted to come in for a little chat, Lillian. Do you mind if I braid my hair here?" "Why, no, indeed. I am glad to have you. Sit down."