Her spirits had worn low in the process. She had begun to feel the keen griefs of a martyr. Through her love for this man, what had she not suffered? From the moment on the _Cherokee Rose_ that she had seen his brother’s face, so nearly a facsimile of his own, her old love for him reasserted itself and would not be denied. Had not Adrian been of the passengers of the packet, had not so keen and intense a reminder of the old days risen before her, life would have gone on as heretofore. She would have continued to adjust her moods to the exactions of her arbitrary husband, as she had been well content to do. No jealousy would have inflamed his causeless suspicions. He would have been still in his lordly enjoyment of his rich opportunities and Adrian Ducie alive and well. She had been pilloried before the public gaze; her child had been torn from her bosom; her husband had made his name, the name she bore, infamous with a revolting crime, and was dead in his sins; and the man for whose sake--nay for the sake of a mere sweet memory of a boyish worship, a tender reciprocation of a pure and ardent attachment--this coil of events was set in motion, writes that he has read the story to the end of the page, and the book is closed. Ah, no--Randal Ducie, there is somewhat more, reading between the lines, for your perusal, and the book may be reopened. Her heart was full of reproach for him, and yet she believed that he loved her and secretly upbraided him that he did not love her more than the frown of the world,--that world to which she had in her fresh youth been glad to do homage on her bended knees, sacrificing him to it, and her plighted troth. She was restless; she could not be still. She was out every day. More than once in her limousine she caught sight of him on the sidewalk. She had fancied, she had feared he might not speak, but he raised his hat with a grave dignity and a look wholly devoid of consciousness, and she could hang no thread of a theory on the incident. Once he chanced to be strolling with Hildegarde Dean, and with the recollection of her fresh, smiling, girlish face Paula went home in a rage, as if she had received some bitter affront, as if her tenure on his affections precluded his exchange of a word with any other woman, the tender of a casual courtesy. Then it was that she projected the purchase of the necklace. If he should--but oh, he could not! That girl should not wear the gorgeous gewgaw, which she herself had rescued at such pains and risk, and restored to his possession. He was as poor as poverty--she had adopted her husband’s habit of scorn of small means--and she would buy it secretly through an agent, at any price.