"Carmen was stabbed!"

"And serve her right! Fascinating, fiendish demon!" Then she laughed, her mood changing.

"Did you see Charlie?" she said.

"We breakfasted together."

"Cheerful person, isn't he?"

"No," I said. "He looked cross and ill."

"Ill!" she said, with a shade of anxiety. "Oh, you only mean dyspeptic."

"Perhaps."

"Well, he always does when he comes from Paris. If you could go into his room and see the row of photographs on his mantelpiece, you might guess why."

"Pictures of 'Sole Dieppoise' and 'Poulet a la Victoria aux Truffes,' no doubt," I hazarded.

She doubled up with laughter. "Yes, just that," she said. "Well, he adores me in his way, and will bring me a new Cartier ring to make up for it--you will see at luncheon."

"He is a perfect husband, then."

"About the same as you will find Christopher. Only Christopher will start by being an exquisite lover. There is nothing he does not know, and Charlie has not an idea of that part. Heavens!--the dulness of my honeymoon!"

"Mrs. Carruthers said all honeymoons were only another parallel to going to the dentist or being photographed. Necessary evils to be got through for the sake of the results."

"The results!"

"Yes, the nice house and the jewels and the other things."

"Oh! Yes, I suppose she was right, but if one had married Robert one would have had both." She did not say both what--but oh, I knew!

"You think Mr. Carruthers will make a fair husband, then?" I asked.

"You will never really know Christopher. I have been acquainted with him for years. You will never feel he would tell you the whole truth about anything. He is an epicure, and an a.n.a.lyst of sensations. I don't know if he has any G.o.ds--he does not believe in them if he has; he believes in no one, and nothing, but perhaps himself. He is violently in love with you for the moment, and he wants to marry you, because he cannot obtain you on any other terms."

"You are flattering," I said, rather hurt.

"I am truthful. You will probably have a delightful time with him, and keep him devoted to you for years, because you are not in love with him; and he will take good care you do not look at any one else. I can imagine if one were in love with Christopher he would break one's heart, as he has broken poor Alicia Verney's."

"Oh, but how silly! People don't have broken hearts now; you are talking like out of a book, dear Lady Ver."

"There are a few cases of broken hearts, but they are not for book reasons--of death and tragedy, etc.--they are because we cannot have what we want, or keep what we have--" and she sighed.

We did not speak for a few minutes, then she said, quite gayly:

"You have made my head better; your touch is extraordinary; in spite of all, I like you, snake-girl. You are not found on every gooseberry-bush."

We kissed lightly, and I left her and went to my room.

Yes, the best thing I can do is to marry Christopher. I care for him so little that the lady in Paris won't matter to me, even if she is like Sir Charles's "Poulet a la Victoria aux Truffes." He is such a gentleman, he will at least be kind to me and refined and considerate--and the Carruthers emeralds are divine, and just my stones. I shall have them reset by Cartier. The lace, too, will suit me, and the sables, and I shall have the suite that Mrs. Carruthers used at Branches done up with pale, pale green, and burn all the early Victorians! And no doubt existence will be full of triumphs and pleasure.

But oh--I wish--I wish it were possible to obtain--"both!"

300 PARK STREET,

_Friday night._

Luncheon pa.s.sed off very well. Sir Charles returned from the City improved in temper, and, as Lady Ver had predicted, presented her with a Cartier jewel. It was a brooch, not a ring, but she was delighted, and purred to him.

He was a little late, and we were seated, a party of eight, when he came in. They all chaffed him about Paris, and he took it quite good-humoredly--he even seemed pleased. He has no wit, but he looks like a gentleman, and I dare say as husbands go he is suitable.

I am getting quite at home in the world, and can speak to any one. I listen, and I do not talk much, only when I want to say something that makes them think.

A very nice man sat next me to-day; he reminded me of the old generals at Branches. We had quite a war of wits, and it stimulated me.

He told me, among other things, when he discovered who I was, that he had known papa--papa was in the same Guards with him--and that he was the best-looking man of his day. Numbers of women were in love with him, he said, but he was a faithless being, and rode away.

"He probably enjoyed himself--don't you think so?--and he had the good luck to die in his zenith," I said.

"He was once engaged to Lady Merrenden, you know. She was Lady Sophia Vavasour then, and absolutely devoted to him, but Mrs. Carruthers came between them and carried him off--she was years older than he was, too, and as clever as paint."

"Poor papa seems to have been a weak creature, I fear."

"All men are weak," he said.

"And then he married and left Mrs. Carruthers, I suppose?" I asked. I wanted to hear as much as I could.

"Ye-e-s," said my old colonel. "I was best man at the wedding."

"And what was she like, my mamma?"

"She was the loveliest creature I ever saw," he said--"as lovely as you, only you are the image of your father, all but the hair--his was fair."

"No one has ever said I was lovely before. Oh, I am so glad if you think so," I said. It did please me. I have often been told I am attractive and extraordinary, and wonderful and divine, but never just lovely. He would not say any more about my parents, except that they hadn't a sou to live on, and were not very happy--Mrs. Carruthers took care of that.

Then, as every one was going, he said: "I am awfully glad to have met you.

We must be pals, for the sake of old times," and he gave me his card for me to keep his address, and told me if ever I wanted a friend to send him a line--Colonel Tom Carden, The Albany.

I promised I would.

"You might give me away at my wedding," I said, gayly. "I am thinking of getting married, some day!"

"That I will," he promised; "and, by Jove! the man will be a fortunate fellow."