the "steady" waiter see pass across her face
more than a short spasm? He was now chanting
"Mr. and Mrs. Henry Wandesforde! Miss
Wandesforde." And those guests were defiling
up the stairs, Mr. Wandesforde pulling hard at
his gloves. Mrs. Wandesforde's wrists chinked
with the sound of rattling bracelets as she received
the hostess's warm welcome. Mr. Wandesforde's
figure, in a sort of annular eclipse, and
partially in shadow from clouds of tulle in front,
bowed from a distance. He did not suspect
what ghastliness was behind the smile that
greeted them. Then the stream set in, and
began to ascend steadily.

Now came Laura junior rustling down
(Blanche was above, in the Swiss peasant's dress).
The mother went through all the routine duties
earnestly and with activity. She was in motion
always—in the motion of speech when not in
that of figure. She went through all the features
of the part without omitting a single thing. She
had a word for all. She carried on the thing
"behind the scenes." She flew up to her
daughter poor—Blanche, in the Swiss peasant's
dress—and encouraged her kindly, and with
sympathy, to do her part well. Those words fell
strangely on Blanche's ear.

"Has he come, mamma?" she asked, settling
the "bands" of the peasant dress. "Mind, he
is to have a front row."

"By-and-by, love," said mamma. "I am afraid
he will not be here till late—he has written to
say so. But that makes no matter, you know.
You are looking charming, dear, in that dress."

  And Blanche, a good girl, perhaps, after seeing
a patch of warm sunlight—a sunlight something
like affection—on that worn broken landscape,
put up her lips and kissed her. Talk of the Greek
play-writers and their terrible element of fate
and necessity, here was as fine a bit of tragedy
as they could have thought of.

The show began, and the show went on. She
never relaxed. Mr Romaine had come to
the front, anxious to consult her about Mrs.
Fermor. she had not come. "We could not
begin without her, you know," he said.

"O, we can send for her, to be sure," said
Lady Laura, with alacrity.

"And Spendlesham," said Romaine, "what is
he about? No one seems to be in time."

"Later—all later," said Lady Laura, with
a smile. "There is no hurry, you see."

"Well, then, we may begin," said Mr Romaine,
"and I myself will go—for the Fermors."

John Hanbury was there beside him, and
almost heard his speech. Romaine gave him a
bitter look of impatience. He was carring very
little for the show of that night. He was thinking
of some other place.

It began with the Parting of Hector and
Andromache, the Trojan hero, in fine foil armour,
depicted by young Wainwright; the tearful wife
by the lovely Cecilia Towler, Lady Towler's
eldest. There was appropriate music, suggestive
of Troy and hostile Greeks; and the "Parting,"
lasting about a minute, the tableau was
over. Lady Laura was seen applauding. They all
thought how she was enjoying it. Mr. Romaine,
out on the landing, and biting his nails, was restless
and impatient. Finally, he "plunged" down
stairs angrily and left the house. John Hanbury,
who had been watching his motions quietly, very
soon after glided down stairs, and also left the
house.

CHAPTER XLIV. DANGER

In Fermor's house, with Fermor sitting in his
study as in a den watching jealously for
something, the same state of things continued on that
dismal evening. Some one else was watching as
feverishly up-stairs.

"So he has told her," he thought, pacing up
and down, "and she dares to taunt me. I shall
break her yet." He stopped, for he heard a
sound of feet and shuffling in the hall. It was
the sound he was looking for. A man had come
with a great black box, a huge casket, containing
her treasure.

The dozen hands simultaneously busy on the
dress had it finished to the moment—some one
walking up and down, and urging them on as an
overseer does the galley-slaves at the oar. It
was sent home to the minute, for Madame
Adelaide was nice about her reputation. Fermor
came out of the den. This night he was sadly
excited—so excited as to do what at another
time he would have thought ungentlemanly.

"Bring that in here!" he said.

Mrs. Fermor's own maid was tripping down to
welcome the treasure, to take it into her own
arms. There was great curiousity in the house as
to how "missus" would look in the "playhouse"
dress.

"Bring that in here!" repeated Fermor, "box
and all. Do you hear me? Must I tell you
everything in this house twice over?"

It was brought in without a word. The lady's
maid flew up-stairs to her mistress with the
news.

"Now," thought Fermor, locking the door, and
getting his hat, "we shall see," Madame
Adelaide's great black box lay there—imprisoned
—an unaccustomed atmosphere. To the old sane
Fermor of years back it would have seemed,
perhaps, a pitiful, mean, little, and unworthy
trick.

As he went out, a man came up the steps with
a note. It was Miss Manuel's note. He knew
the handwriting at once, and hurried to the
light in a flurry; he read it under a street lamp
—read it in a wild tumult of agitation.

Miss Manuel had written:

"I cannot delay thanking you for a kindness,
the news of which has just reached me. I mean
the way in which you took my part yesterday.
Such behaviour is like heaping coals of fire on my
head. I do not deserve it—indeed no—for if you
knew what I dare not tell you, but which is yet
a vile hypocrisy not to tell you, you would, I