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 of that sort always fresh. It's likely to grow strong instead of weak."

"I've seen her since . . . several times . . . at her concerts."

She saw, with her small piercing eyes, that she had uncovered a weak place in his armor. . . a single chance on which to pin all her hopes.

"Have you talked to her?"

"No."

She knew too that he was, in a sense, invincible. Sabine, so far as the world was concerned, made an excellent wife. She was worldly, distinguished, clever. So far as he was himself concerned, she gave him no trouble. She did not make scenes and she did not indulge in passionate outbreaks of jealousy. She did not even speak of the love which he sought outside his marriage. . . the intrigues that were always taking place and now made him invincible in the face of her argument. She effaced herself, and as she had done once before, waited. But on that occasion she had waited for marriage, and had won. Now she was waiting for love, which was quite a different matter.

"If it's an heir you want, I have one already." He smiled. "He must be nearly twelve by now. Of course, he is the grandson of a janitor and the son of a music hall singer. . . . Still, he is an heir. We might legitimatize him."

By this stroke he had won, for he had made her angry. . . the thing he had been seeking to do all the while.

"I hear from him twice a year . . . when my lawyer sends his mother money."

"You'd do well to forget his existence."

And then they had talked for a time without arriving anywhere.

As usual it was Richard who had won. He had gone back to Sabine as if nothing at all had occurred.

Thérèse drank the last of her coffee and then laid her dumpy figure down on the divan in the dark library. She was tired for the first time in her life, as if she had not the strength to go on