r to the music or to the brilliant audience; no doubt their
thoughts were far away with husband, brother, son maybe, still in peril,
or lately succumbed to a cruel fate.

Among these the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, but lately arrived
from France, was a most conspicuous figure: dressed in deep, heavy black
silk, with only a white lace kerchief to relieve the aspect of mourning
about her person, she sat beside Lady Portarles, who was vainly trying
by witty sallies and somewhat broad jokes, to bring a smile to the
Comtesse's sad mouth. Behind her sat little Suzanne and the Vicomte,
both silent and somewhat shy among so many strangers. Suzanne's eyes
seemed wistful; when she first entered the crowded house, she had
looked eagerly all around, scanning every face, scrutinised every box.
Evidently the one face she wished to see was not there, for she settled
herself quietly behind her mother, listened apathetically to the music,
and took no further interest in the audience itself.

"Ah, Lord Grenville," said Lady Portarles, as following a discreet
knock, the clever, interesting head of the Secretary of State appeared
in the doorway of the box, "you could not arrive more _A_ PROPOS. Here
is Madame la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to hear the latest
news from France."

The distinguished diplomat had come forward and was shaking hands with
the ladies.

"Alas!" he said sadly, "it is of the very worst. The massacres continue;
Paris literally reeks with blood; and the guillotine claims a hundred
victims a day."

Pale and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her chair, listening
horror-struck to this brief and graphic account of what went on in her
own misguided country.

"Ah, monsieur!" she said in broken English, "it is dreadful to hear all
that--and my poor husband still in that awful country. It is terrible
for me to be sitting here, in a theatre, all safe and in peace, whilst
he is in such peril."

"Lud, Madame!" said honest, bluff Lady Portarles, "your sitting in a
convent won't make your husband safe, and you have your children to
consider: they are too young to be dosed with anxiety and premature
mourning."

The Comtesse smiled through her tears at the vehemence of her friend.
Lady Portarles, whose voice and manner would not have misfitted a
jockey, had a heart of gold, and hid the most genuine sympathy and most
gentle kindliness, beneath the somewhat coarse manners affected by some
ladies at that