He was too thoroughly an artist
himself not to feel and appreciate how much the old love of posing, the
longing for the air of a studio, and the art instinct might have had to
do with Ninitta's fault.
But in regard to Fenton his heart burned with that rage which is
largely grief. It was like the anger, which is half astonishment, of a
child who is unexpectedly struck by its playmate. The fact that he was
incapable of comprehending how it was possible to betray a friend made
him confused in thinking of the artist's share in the transaction; and
the fact that he could vent upon Fenton his righteous indignation
enabled him to free his feelings toward Ninitta of almost all
animosity. When at last he turned to go home, it was with a profound
pity that he thought of his wife.
It was a little after eleven when he reached his house. The gas was
burning in his chamber and Ninitta lay apparently sleeping. The
wretched woman feigned a slumber which she had in vain courted. She was
convinced that her husband could not see the _Fatima_ without
discovering her secret, and the guilty knowledge in her heart filled
her with growing fears as the moments went on.
When at last she heard Herman's step, she had started up in bed like a
wild creature, her heart fluttering, her ears strained as if to catch
from the sound some clue to his mood.
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