Er shrieked out against his freedom. She felt within her a pain that was almost intolerable; the pain of a no longer young, but forcible, woman,
who was still brimful of life, and who was fiercely and physically jealous
of a young man over whom she had no rights at all. Ah, if only she were twenty years younger! But--even now! She leaned her arms carelessly on the table, and managed to glance into the lid of the _boite de beaute_ which he had given her. The expression in the eyes that
looked into hers from the lid startled her. Where was her experience? She was ashamed of herself. Crudity was all
very well with this man, but--there were limits.
She must not pass them without meaning to do so, without knowing she was doing so. And she had not lived her life since her divorce without discovering that the
greatest _faux pas_ a jealous woman can take is to show her jealousy. Husbands of other women had proved that to her up to

the hilt, when she had been their refuge. "Of course! You know much of men." He spoke with a quiet assurance as of one in complete possession of her past. For the first time the question, "Has he heard of the famous Mrs. Chepstow? Does he--_know_?"
flashed through her mind. It was possible. For he had been in Europe, to Paris. And he could read English, and perhaps had read many English papers. "Did you ever hear of some one called 'Bella Donna'?" she said, slowly. Her voice sounded careless, but her eyes were watc