ifference which generally characterized Olga's
behaviour.

Too well-bred to be guilty of rudeness, the latter contrived in a
very adroit way to defy every proposition advanced by the fair guest,
and while she never transcended the bounds of courtesy, she piqued
and harassed and puzzled not only Mrs. Carew, but Mr. Palma.

At ten o'clock on Thursday night, when the guests invited to dinner
had departed, and the family circle had collected in the sitting-room
to await the carriage which would convey the ladies to a Wedding
Reception, Mrs. Carew came downstairs magnificently attired in a
delicate green satin, covered with an over dress of exquisite white
lace, and adorned with a profusion of emeralds and pearls.

Her hair was arranged in a unique style (which Olga denominated "Isis
fashion"), and above her forehead rested a jewelled lotos, the petals
of large pearls, the leaves of emeralds.

As she stood before the grate, with the white lace shawl slipping
from her shoulders, and exposing the bare gleaming bust, Olga
exclaimed:

"O Queen of the Nile! What Antony awaits your smiles?"

As if aware that she were scrutinized, the grey eyes, sank to the
carpet, then met Olga's.

"Miss Neville is not the only person who has found in me a
resemblance to the Egyptian sorceress. When I return to Italy, Story
shall immortalize me in connection with his own impassioned poem. Let
me see, how does it begin:

'Here, Charmian, take my bracelets.'"

She passed her hand across her low wide brow, and, glancing furtively
at Mr. Palma, she daringly repeated the strongest passages of the
poem, while her flute-like tones seemed to gather additional
witchery.

Sitting in one corner, with an open book in her hand, Regina looked
at her and listened, fascinated by her singular beauty, but
astonished at the emphasis with which she recited imagery that tinged
the girl's cheek with red.

"If there be a 'cockatoo' in Gotham, doubtless you will own it
to-morrow. But forgive me, oh, Cleopatra! if I venture the heresy
that Story's poem--gorgeous, though I grant it--leaves a bad taste in
one's mouth, like richly spiced wine, hot and sweet and deliciously
intoxicating; but beware of to-morrow! 'Sometimes the poison of asps
is not confined to fig-baskets; and with your permission, I should
like to offer you an infallible antidote, Seraph of the Nile?"

Mrs. Carew smiled defiantly, and inclined her head, interpreting the
lurkin