only realised in those moments how much he had leaned upon her, how completely she seemed to have extended over him and his troubled life some sort of sheltering influence, to which he had succumbed with an effortless, an almost fatalistic impulse, finding there, at any rate, a refuge from the horrors of his empty days.  It was all abstract and impersonal at first, this jealousy which had come so suddenly to disturb the serenity of an almost too perfect day, but as the hours passed it seemed to him that his thoughts dwelt more often upon the direct cause of his brief separation from Elizabeth.  He turned in at one of the clubs of which he had been made a member, and threw himself gloomily into an easy-chair.  His thoughts had turned towards the grim, masterful personality of the man who seemed to have obtruded himself upon their lives.  What did it mean when Elizabeth told him she was engaged for to-night?  She was supping with him somewhere—­probably at that moment seated opposite to him at a small, rose-shaded table in one of the many restaurants of the city which they had visited together.  He, Sylvanus Power, his supplanter, was occupying the place that belonged to him, ordering her supper, humouring her little preferences, perhaps sharing with her that little glow of relief which comes with the hour of rest, after the strain of the day’s work.  The suggestion was intolerable.  To-morrow he would have an explanation!  Elizabeth belonged to him.  The sooner the world knew it, the better, and this man first of all.  He read her few lines again, hastily pencilled, and evidently written standing up.  There was a certain ignominy in being sent about his business, just because this colossus from the West had appeared and claimed—­what?  Not his right!—­he could have no right!  What then?...

Philip ordered a drink, tore open an evening paper, and tried to read.  The letters danced before his eyes, the whisky and soda stood neglected at his elbow.  Afterwards he found himself looking into space.  There was something cynical, challenging almost, in the manner in which that man had taken Elizabeth away from him, had acknowledged his introduction, even had treated the author of a play, a writer, as some sort of a mountebank, making his living by catering for the amusements of the world.  How did that man regard such gifts as his, he wondered?—­Sylvanus Power, of whom he had seen it written that he was one of the conquerors of nature, a hard but splendid utilitarian, the builder of railways in China and bridges for the transit of his metals amid the clouds of the mountain tops.  In the man’s absence, his harshness, almost uncouthness, seemed modified.  He was a rival, without a doubt, and to-night a favoured one.  How well had he known Elizabeth?  For how long?  Was it true, that rumour he had once heard—­that the first step in her fortunes had been due to the caprice of a millionaire?  He found the room stifling, but the thought of the streets outside unnerved him.  He looked about for some distraction.