A Whirl Asunder by Gertrude Atherton

Helena did not meet her guests at dinner that night, nor did she trouble to send word that she was ill. She rang for the Chinese butler, gave him an order, then locked her doors and sat motionless in her boudoir for hours. She pictured until her brain ached and her ears rang what her life with Clive could have been, and what his would be with Mary Gordon.

But despair was not in her as yet, for he was still under the same roof, and she had not played her last card. It was a card that she had half-consciously considered from the beginning, and during the last few days had looked full upon. To-night for the first time she realized that it was a hateful card, unworthy of her, but reminded herself that she was a woman who would, if necessary, walk straight to her purpose over cracking and spouting earth.