Nesta felt that, as the woman in possession, she was missing half the satisfaction in life by reason of her inability to triumph openly over the other woman--the woman without the gate. Finally, at the end of her resources of innuendo and allusion, she tried the effect of open warfare. She had driven over to Charnwood to call and, as Claire was away, spending the afternoon with friends, Jean had perforce to entertain her undesired visitor alone. It was just as she was preparing to take her departure that Nesta launched her attack. “You look so ill, Miss Peterson,” she remarked commiseratingly. “So pale and worn! It does not suit you, I am sure, for of course you must have been very pretty at one time for my husband to have wished to marry you.” Jean stared at her without reply. The outrageous speech almost took her breath away, by its sheer, impudent bravado. “There!” Nesta feigned dismay. “Now I have offended you! And I so want us to be good friends. But of course”--quickly--“it is difficult for you to feel friendly towards the wife of Blaise. I can understand that. I suppose”--her head a little tilted to one side like that of an enquiring robin and her eyes fastened on the other’s white face with a merciless, gimlet gaze that filled Jean with helpless rage--“I suppose you loved him _very_ much?” Jean felt the blood rush into her cheeks and caught a responsive gleam of satisfaction in the other’s half-closed eyes. “I think that is hardly a subject which can be discussed between us,” she said, with a supreme effort at self-control. And then, to her unbounded thankfulness, Tucker threw open the door and announced that Mrs. Tormarin’s car was waiting. This open declaration of hostility on Nesta’s part gave Jean food for reflection. Briefly she recounted the incident to Claire, adding: “It means I must not go to Staple again. If she intends to adopt that attitude, it would make a situation which is already quite difficult enough hopelessly impossible.” The two girls were pacing up and down the terrace at Charnwood together when Jean indicated the consequences of Nesta’s visit, and Claire, sensing the pain in her friend’s voice, pressed her arm sympathetically. But she said nothing. What was there to say? Within herself, she felt that Jean’s determination to eschew the Tormarin menage altogether was the only wise one. “Poor Blaise!” pursued Jean, a slight tremor in her voice. “He has the hardest part to bear. She must make life hideously difficult for him.” Claire nodded. “Yes. He is looking very fagged and strained. Horrid little beast!” she added with unusual vehemence. “Why on earth couldn’t she have _stayed_ dead?” Jean laughed joylessly. “Why indeed?--Only she never really died, you see.”