once my lady saw the girl lift the money he threw to her from
the ground, kiss it with a passionate kiss, and put it in the bodice of
her dress. In vain after that did Carina offer Parma violets and lilies
from Sorrento, Lady Chandos would have no more, and Carina was requested
soon afterward by the master of the hotel to take her stand with her
flowers elsewhere.

Lord Chandos never made any remark upon it--every lady has some foible,
some little peculiarity. She was a perfect wife, and this little feeling
of small jealousies was not worth mentioning. If they went to a ball and
he danced three times with the same lady, he knew he would hear
something in faint dispraise. If he admired any one as a good rider or a
good dancer, out would come some little criticism; he smiled as he
heard, but said nothing--it was not worth while. Like a kind-hearted man
he bore this little failing in mind, and, if ever he praised one woman,
he took care to add something complimentary to his wife. So the three
years had passed and this was the spring-tide of the fourth, the
showery, sparkling month of April; violets and primroses were growing,
the birds beginning to sing, the leaves springing, the chestnuts
budding, the fair earth reviving after its long swoon in the arms of
winter. The London season of this year was one of the best known, no
cloud of either sorrow or adversity hung over the throne or the country;
trade was good, everything seemed bright and prosperous; but the great
event of the season was most certainly the first appearance in England
of the new singer, Madame Vanira, whose marvelous beauty and wonderful
voice were said to drive people mad with excitement and delight.

It was to see her that Lord and Lady Chandos went to the Royal Italian
Opera on that night in April on which our story is continued.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

A MEETING OF EYES.

The newspapers had already given many details of Madame Vanira. For many
long years there had been nothing seen like her. They said her passion
and power, her dramatic instinct, her intensity were so great, that she
was like electric fire. One critic quoted of her what was so prettily
said of another great actress:

"She has a soul of fire in a body of gauze."

No one who saw her ever forgot her; even if they only saw her once, her
face lived clear, distinct, and vivid in their memory forever afterward.
No one knew which to admire most, her face or her voice. Her face was