cigarette, she sprang up again, struck a match, held the light to him, with a fragile grace of gesture like a little statue. Her pale-brown eyes, with a touch of gold-dust over them, were like chrysolite; and they gazed up enthusiastically and then cast their glance downwards timidly, under the shade of their lids. She was pale, with the anæmic pallor of alabaster, the pallor of our jaded society-girls; and her hands moved feverishly and restlessly, as though the fingers were constantly seeking an object for their butterfly sensitiveness . . .
Was it so? Or was it all Constance' imagination? And, amidst her wondering doubts, there came suddenly—if it really was so—a spasm of jealousy; but not jealousy of her husband's love: jealousy of his youth. She suddenly looked back fifteen years and felt herself grown old, felt him remaining young. Life, real life, for which she sometimes had a vague yearning, while she felt herself too old for it, after frittering away her days: that life he would perhaps still be able to live, if he met with it. He at least was not too old for it!
It all filled her with a passion of misery and anger; and then again she thought:
"No, there is nothing; and I am imagining all manner of things that do not exist."
Addie came home; and, with the rain pelting outside, there was a gentle cosiness indoors, at table. Constance was silent, but the others were cheerful.
