on the woman's arms, the huge cabochon emeralds on her fingers. She tried to subdue her pride, to conquer her absurd feeling of jealousy—it must be absurd, she attempted to assure herself; why, Byron has only just met this woman—to withdraw her refusal, when the music started and he and Lasca were swept away in the maelstrom of dancers.
Some sheba, Lasca! Dick commented. Whew! She'll make a dent in Harlem.
Mary was silent. In vain her eyes sought out the departed pair.
Shall we dance, Mary?
Dick, I've got a headache. Please take me to the dressing-room.
Presently she found herself alone in the room—even the maid in attendance had disappeared for the moment. Staring at her image in the mirror, she was not reassured by what she saw.
I can't do it, she moaned. I ought to kill her, I want to, but I can't. What's wrong with me?
She sank into a chair and gave way to an uncontrollable fit of sobbing.
