They were turning to say good-by to the hostess, when Laura’s attention was arrested by the sight of a gentleman who was just speaking to Mrs. Schoonmaker.  For a second her heart stopped beating.  He was a handsome man of forty and perhaps more, with grayish hair and whiskers, and he walked with a cane, as if he were slightly lame.  He might be less than forty, for his face was worn into hard lines, and he was pale.

No.  It could not be, she said to herself.  It is only a resemblance.  But as the gentleman turned and she saw his full face, Laura put out her hand and clutched Washington’s arm to prevent herself from falling.

Washington, who was not minding anything, as usual, looked ’round in wonder.  Laura’s eyes were blazing fire and hatred; he had never seen her look so before; and her face, was livid.

“Why, what is it, sis?  Your face is as white as paper.”

“It’s he, it’s he.  Come, come,” and she dragged him away.

“It’s who?” asked Washington, when they had gained the carriage.

“It’s nobody, it’s nothing.  Did I say he?  I was faint with the heat.  Don’t mention it.  Don’t you speak of it,” she added earnestly, grasping his arm.

When she had gained her room she went to the glass and saw a pallid and haggard face.

“My God,” she cried, “this will never do.  I should have killed him, if I could.  The scoundrel still lives, and dares to come here.  I ought to kill him.  He has no right to live.  How I hate him.  And yet I loved him.  Oh heavens, how I did love that man.  And why didn’t he kill me?  He might better.  He did kill all that was good in me.  Oh, but he shall not escape.  He shall not escape this time.  He may have forgotten.  He will find that a woman’s hate doesn’t forget.  The law?  What would the law do but protect him and make me an outcast?  How all Washington would gather up its virtuous skirts and avoid me, if it knew.  I wonder if he hates me as I do him?”

So Laura raved, in tears and in rage by turns, tossed in a tumult of passion, which she gave way to with little effort to control.

A servant came to summon her to dinner.  She had a headache.  The hour came for the President’s reception.  She had a raving headache, and the Senator must go without her.

That night of agony was like another night she recalled.  How vividly it all came back to her.  And at that time she remembered she thought she might be mistaken.  He might come back to her.  Perhaps he loved her, a little, after all.  Now, she knew he did not.  Now, she knew he was a cold-blooded scoundrel, without pity.  Never a word in all these years.  She had hoped he was dead.  Did his wife live, she wondered.  She caught at that—­and it gave a new current to her thoughts.  Perhaps, after all —­she must see him.  She could not live without seeing him.  Would he smile as in the old days when she loved him so; or would he sneer as when she last saw him?  If be looked so, she hated him.  If he should call her “Laura, darling,” and look so!  She must find him.  She must end her doubts.