It was a woman’s quarrel that night, swift, malicious, and contemptible. As is the case in some such feminine fracas, the disputants grew the more bitter, the more icily eager with every word. Gibe stabbed at gibe and taunt at taunt. There was no generosity in their passion to give human pathos to the scene. Ophelia leaned against an escritoire and watched with her hard blue eyes the flushed and dishevelled woman before her. They were both breathless for the moment, like two duellists who shrink back dazed after some fierce locking of their swords. The younger woman tossed back her hair, her bosom rising and falling rapidly as in an ecstasy of unspeakable anger. “Are you mad?” she said. “This is too utterly ridiculous.” Ophelia laughed, her white face shining with her scorn. “It is the fashion to think others ridiculous,” she retorted, “when all the folly is one’s own.” “Tell me, whose fault is it?” “I am asking you the same question.” “Because a man pays me small attentions am I to snub him like a barmaid?” “Small attentions—well phrased, indeed!” “Is it my fault if he prefers me to you?” “Is it his fault if you throw yourself under his feet every hour of the day? Leave him alone, or you shall pay for it.” Miss Saker sat up stiffly in her chair, her face quivering as the words smote her. “This is your gratitude after I have been such a friend to you! Oh, my God, I will be even with you, and that quickly. What of Gabriel Strong, and the girl you ruined? What of Jim’s cunning and bribery? Don’t I know all about this? Pay for it, indeed!” Miss Saker recovered her composure of a sudden, went to the glass and began to braid her hair. She held the pins between her quivering lips, her hands working feverishly, her eyes hot and strained. Ophelia watched her as though half repentant, more from fear of what might follow than out of pity for her friend. “What are you doing, Mab?” Mabel Saker paid no heed to her, but went to the wardrobe, drew out a morning gown and coat, donned them, and took a hat from the bonnet rack. “Have I hurt you, Mab?” The brunette turned on her with eyes afire. She was a woman out of whose heart all pity and forgiveness had fled. Nothing but infinite resentment ruled her impulses. “I will not stay in this house another hour.” “But it is midnight; what will people say?” “I don’t care. You have insulted me too badly, and you shall pay for it.” She started aside towards the wall and seized the bell-rope that hung beside the bed. Ophelia moved towards her with hand outstretched. She was too late, however, either for penitence or intimidation. Ten times or more Mabel Saker had jerked at the cord, and the bell clamored distantly in the silence of the house. XLI