"That other person has made a hit, I see. They're booming her in the papers. Did she speak of her?" "Not a word!" "H'm!" "What do you mean by that, Percy?" "Oh, nothing." "I suppose you think she's jealous of her." "Jealous?" Tate repeated, lifting his eyes. "You told me yourself that she was jealous before she even saw the other performer." "Yes, and now she's jealous of her success." "Oh, _professional_ jealousy," he said, throwing back his head. A moment later he added: "There are worse kinds of jealousy than that in the world." Mrs. Tate looked at him closely, but his eyes were fixed on his plate. For a few moments they did not speak; she was pondering his last remark. They understood each other so well that they often divined each other's thoughts. Now she saw that he did not care to discuss the subject, and she let it drop. She continued to think about it so much, however, that she determined to go to the Hippodrome alone some day, to a _matinée_, and see for herself what Blanche's successor as a star performer was like. She returned home with a sickly feeling of regret and torturing anticipation; she had not only seen Lottie King, but she had also studied the face of Jules Le Baron, who, unconscious of her gaze, stood within a few yards of her seat. What she had observed in his expression, however, she did not communicate to her husband. Her visit at the Hippodrome made her resolve to be even kinder to Blanche than she had been; she would take her and the child to drive in the Park two or three times a week,--oftener if she could. Mrs. Tate tried to shake off her forebodings, but for the rest of the day they clung to her, and the next morning she woke with them fresh in mind. So she resolved to drive at once to Albemarle Street. The weather was too dull to take the child out, and she would pass the morning with Blanche and try to cheer her up. When she reached the hotel she felt relieved to find Blanche in a much better frame of mind than she had been on the occasion of her last call. The pain had left her for a few days, Blanche explained, and she had been greatly encouraged; even Jules had spoken of her improvement; he had been so patient with her, and now she felt ashamed of having been so dispirited. Mrs. Tate went away with a feeling that she had been a fool, that her forebodings were ridiculous.