She was so unused to being alone, that solitude was in itself an illness to her. She had no resource of any kind; everything bored her except the life she was used to lead. She could never imagine why people read books or wrote them. Even the newspapers she had never read, except when they had had something about herself or Cocky. William Massarene had said, “Mind you are alone,” and she felt that it would be the height of imprudence to have any of her friends with her when he should make his appearance at ten o’clock. She took a bowl of hot soup, a little claret, and a little fruit, and felt better. She had herself arrayed in a tea-gown of crape, with loose floating sleeves and a long train which trailed after her; it was very becoming; her hair was loosely wound round her head, and a high jet comb was stuck in it. She went down and into her boudoir. It was eight o’clock. She had forgotten Jack. Lights shaded with big butterfly shades were burning low. The room was full of the scent of lilies of the valley. It was a nest for human nightingales. And she had to wait for an odious brute out of Dakota, who had got her signature for twelve thousand pounds! How disgracefully inappropriate to the boudoir and to herself! There were several rings at the door-bell which echoed through the hall below; but no one came for her. She felt it was a blessing that Harry could not come; he had been used to racing up the stairs when he heard she was unwell, and forcing his entry by right of usage. And yet in a way she missed Harry. She had always been able to make him believe anything. Ten o’clock struck at last. She shivered when she heard it. If the man did not come, what on earth would she do in the morning? She almost resolved to take the jewel-safe and go out of England. Certainly neither Ronald nor the Ormes would pursue her as a common thief. But after a moment’s consideration she knew that to do this would be useless. They would find her wherever she went, and her life would be ruined. No, she reflected, there was nothing but to trust to Billy. She had always had immeasurable power over him, and moved him about like a pawn at chess. She did not doubt that she would always be able to do the same. _Ce que femme vent!_ was her gospel. She belonged to a world in which the grace and charm of women are still very dominant features; but William Massarene belonged to one in which woman was represented by a round O, except in as far as she was wanted for child-bearing and household work. In her latest transaction with him she had confided in him as if he had been a gentleman; she had ignored what she knew so well, that he was but a low brute varnished by money. She expected him to behave as a gentleman would have done in similar circumstances, forgetting that he had neither blood nor breeding in him.