She had reached a point at which the question arose in her mind, whether Philip, in his craving for the success of his new plans, did not seek to push her into the arms of General Sabaroff. That revolting thought filled her with such horror that she dared not entertain it long. "No," she said to herself, "a man does not change so suddenly as that; he does not take six years to reveal himself, and then, at a day's notice, become transformed from an affectionate husband, an honourable, upright, and devoted man, into a nameless scoundrel." When she argued with herself, she arrived at the conclusion that she must be mad to have allowed such an idea to enter her brain, and yet, drive it away as she would, the horrible thought assailed her more and more persistently. Dora was above all things a woman of sound intelligence. After mature reflection she traced for herself a line of conduct that seemed to her the only wise one. First, she took a firm resolution never to address any more reproaches to Philip. Things had gone too far for recriminations to have any effect upon him. She was clear-sighted enough to know that a husband's vagrant affection is not won back by reprimands and reproaches, but only by sweetness, persuasion, and diplomacy. Her greatest fear was that her temper might sour, and against this possibility she set herself to watch most rigorously. She did her best to be attractive, and cultivated a gaiety that should help her to break down the cold barrier that seemed to have fixed itself between her and this man who had so detached himself from her. She took more care than ever of her appearance, and called all her taste into play to help her set off her beauty to best advantage. One evening, when she was dressing for dinner, she remembered that Philip had said to her, before the arrival of their guests at their memorable evening party, "How beautiful you are! How I should love to have you all to myself this evening!" Women seldom forget a remark of that sort. She put on the same dress that had charmed Philip so much, and went downstairs looking her loveliest. After dinner they passed the evening in Dora's boudoir, where she allowed her husband to smoke his cigarette, and smoked one herself when the temptation took her. Philip took no notice of his wife's attire; no remark, no compliment passed his lips. Tired of the tête-à-tête, he took up a book and yawned over it for a while, and about eleven o'clock went out for a breath of air. "It is hopeless; I am done for," said Dora, when Philip had left her, and she burst into tears. What had come over this man who thus caused such suffering to a wife--young, beautiful, dowered with all the gifts that nature can lavish upon a woman, and for whom he would certainly have been ready to lay down his life, if necessary?