t, graceful
chirography of the "Madame Odille Orme" drew her gaze, like the
loathsome fascination of a basilisk, and taking a package of notes
from her pocket, she held them for a moment close to the satin
envelope. Upon one the name of the popular actress; on the others--in
the same peculiar beautiful characters--"Minnie Merle." She put away
the latter, and a flash of scorn momentarily lighted her rigid face.

"Craven as of old! Too cowardly to boldly ask the thing his fickle
fancy favours; he begs under borrowed names. Doubtless his courage
wilts before his swarthy, bold-eyed Xantippe, who allows him scant
latitude for flirtations with pretty actresses. To be thrown
aside--trampled down--for such a creature as Abbie Ames! his
coarse-featured, diamond-dowered bride! Ah! my veins run lava; when I
think of her thick heavy lips, pressing that haughty perfect mouth,
where mine once clung so fondly! Last night the two countenances
seemed like 'as Hyperion to a Satyr!' How completely he sold his
treacherous beauty to the banker's daughter, whom to-day he would
willingly betray for a fairer, fresher face. Craven traitor!"

She passed her handkerchief across her lips, as if to efface some
imaginary stain, and they slowly settled back into their customary
stern curves.

Just then a timid tap upon the door of the reception-room was
followed almost simultaneously by the entrance of Mrs. Waul, who
held a card in her hand.

"The waiter has just brought this up. What answer shall he take
back?"

Mrs. Orme glanced at it, sprang to her feet, and a vivid scarlet
bathed her face and neck.

"Tell him--No! no--no! Madame Orme begs to decline the honour."

Then the crimson tide as suddenly ebbed, she grew ghastly in her
colourlessness, and her bloodless lips writhed, as she called after
the retreating figure:

"Stop! Come back,--let me think."

She walked to the window, and stood for several moments as still as
the bronze Mercury on the mantel. When she turned around, her
features were as fixed as if they belonged to some sculptured slab
from Persepolis.

"Pray don't think me weak and fickle, but indeed, Mrs. Waul, some of
my laurels gash like a crown of thorns. Tell the waiter to show this
visitor up, after five minutes, and then I wish you to come back and
sit with your knitting yonder, at the end of the room. And please
drop the curtain there, the pink silk will make me look a trifle less
ghostly after last night's work.