"It was a horribly dangerous thing," she said, brokenly. "There were so many temptations; the temptation to find excitement in avenging myself on others was strongest of all. I suppose it is the natural savage impulse. There were times when I longed to be cruel. And then I began to think--and there seemed so much suffering in life--and everything seemed so pitiful. And I could not bear the thought of it." And she ended with the sob of a child. "It is very womanish to cry," she whispered, "and I did not mean to do it, but--you look at me so." And she laid her cheek against the cushioned back of her chair, and, for a little while, was more pathetic in her silence than she could have been in any words she might have uttered. It was true that Bertha had looked at her. There were no tears in her own eyes. Her feeling was one of obstinate resistance to all emotion in herself; but she did not resent her friend's; on the contrary, she felt a strange enjoyment of it. "Don't stop crying because I am here," she said. "I like to see you do it." Mrs. Sylvestre recovered herself at once. She sat up, smiling a little. There were no disfiguring traces of her emotion on her fair face. "Thank you," she answered; "but I do not like it myself so much, and I have not done it before for a long time." It was, perhaps, because Mr. Arbuthnot presented himself as an entirely safe topic, with no tendency whatever to develop the sensibilities, that she chose him as the subject of her next remarks. "I do not see much change in your friend," she observed. "If you mean Laurence," Bertha replied, "I dare say not. He does not allow things to happen to him. He knows better." "And he has done nothing whatever during the last seven years?" "He has been to a great many parties," said Bertha, "and he has read a book or so, and sung several songs." "I hope he has sung them well," was her friend's comment. "It always depends upon his mood," Bertha returned; "but there have been times when he has sung them very well indeed." "It can scarcely have been a great tax to have done it occasionally," said Mrs. Sylvestre; "but I should always be rather inclined to think it was the result of chance, and not effort. Still"--with a sudden conscientious scruple brought about by her recollection of the fact that these marks of disapproval had not expressed themselves in her manner earlier in the day--"still he is very agreeable, one cannot deny that." "It is always safe not to attempt to deny it, even if you feel inclined," was Bertha's comment, "because, if you do, he will inevitably prove to you that you were in the wrong before he has done with you." "He did one thing I rather liked," her companion proceeded. "He was very nice--in that peculiar, impartial way of his--to a boy"--