She often seemed to herself as if she were caught in the whirl of a mad intoxicating race with fate; it was glorious; it stimulated her like a draught of wine; it filled her veins with fire; it was as if the spirit of the world had got into her spirit and shot streams of the strength of immortality through all her being. She was as a god to herself, and fate was as a thing of naught. This was in her times of exaltation however; but even in these early days there came moments of reaction in their due season. Fortunately she knew the symptoms of their approach, and could hide herself away from her husband’s eyes. Her room could tell strange tales whenever Gwen shut herself in and threw up the sponge till the next round. Then there came shame into that proud face, fear into those fearless eyes, a stoop into those stoopless shoulders. She neither ranted nor raved, she dared not; if she had once raised her voice, she knew quite well she must shriek, and howl forth the terror and disgust and dismay with which the possible ending to this race with fate filled her. Sometimes she would pull off her shoes and stockings, and go barefooted to and fro the length of the long polished floor with its strips of Eastern carpet—the cool slippery surface soothing the fever of her flying feet. Invariably she would pull off her guard and wedding-ring and lay them with curious gentle wistfulness down on the table. Once when she did this, she drew a deep breath, threw out her arms and laughed. “I am free, free!” she cried, “my body is my own again, and my soul, and my brain! I am myself again, Gwen Waring, a self-respecting creature, with no man’s brand on me—” In a few minutes she came back and looked at the golden bands. “What is the use of lying?” she said, “that mends nothing, and only degrades me. I am not free; whatever happens, whatever could possibly happen, I shall never any more be what I was! Good God! And yet women take marriage as they do a box at the Opera!” But it was not in the strong nature of her, wholesome what there was of it awake, to lose courage often, and her powers of recuperation were superb. Half an hour after she was striding wildly through the room, she came down as unruffled and more untranslatable than ever, to propose some expedition. Strange looked at his watch. “Too late for that, suppose we go and see Brydon?” “Oh, yes, let us go,” she said eagerly. He looked at her, and knew all about it. For a minute he felt an overmastering desire to shake her, and make her eyes speak plain English, he was getting tired of their hieroglyphics. He was buttoning her glove at the time and involuntarily he gave the button a cross twist and twitched it out. “Oh, hang it, is the glove rotten or are my methods? Will it matter?” he asked. “Oh, not at all, my sleeve will cover it.”