general and my mother in particular have decided I am going to marry."

She did not speak. She felt suddenly ashamed she could ever have doubted
him; it must be the warping atmosphere of Mrs. Devlyn's society for
these last days which had planted thoughts, so foreign to her nature, in
her. She did not yet know it was jealousy pure and simple, which attacks
the sweetest, as well, as the bitterest, soul among us all. But a
thrill of gladness ran through her as well as shame.

"And aren't you going to marry her, then?" she said, at last. "She is
very handsome."

Hector looked at her, and a wave of joy chased out the pain he had
suffered. That was it, then! They had told her this already, and she
hated it--she cared for him still.

"Surely you need not ask me," he said, deep reproach in his eyes. "You
must be very changed in seven days to even have thought it possible."

The shame deepened in Theodora. She was, indeed, unlike herself to have
been moved at all by Mrs. Devlyn's words, but she would never doubt
again, and she must tell him that.

"Forgive me," she said, quite low, while she looked away. "I--of course
I ought to be pleased at anything which made you happy, but--oh, I hated
it!"

"Theodora," he said, "I ask you--do not act with me ever--to what end?
We know each other's hearts, and I hope it would pain you were I to
marry any other woman, as much as in like circumstances it would pain
me."

"Yes, it would pain me," she said, simply. "But, oh, we must not speak
thus! Please, please talk of the music, or the--the--oh, anything but
ourselves."

And he tried hard for the few moments which remained before the curtain
rose again. Tried hard, but it was all dust and ashes; and as he left
the box and returned to his own seat next door his heart felt like lead.
How would he be able to follow the rules he had laid down for himself
during his week of meditations in Paris alone?

"You see, dear Lady Bracondale," Morella Winmarleigh had been saying,
"Hector knows that woman with the pearls. He is sitting talking to her
now."

"Hector knows every one, Morella. Lend me your glasses, mine do not seem
to work to-night. Yes, I suppose by some she would be considered
pretty," Lady Bracondale continued, when the lorgnette was fixed to her
focus. "What do you think, dear?"

"Pretty!" exclaimed Miss Winmarleigh. "Oh no! Much too white, and,
oh--er--foreign-looking. We must find out who she is."

The matter was not di