d his glass and studied the
play-bill. The bill announced the new piece as "Scarlet and White."
"Queer title," thought Bevan, a little consoled for his self-immolation
by seeing that Rosalie Rivers, a very pretty little brunette, was to
fill the soubrette role. The curtain drew up. Tom, looking at Valerie
instead of the stage, fancied she looked very pale, and her eyes were
fixed, not on the actors, but on Falkenstein. The first act passed off
in ominous silence. An audience is often afraid to compromise itself by
applauding a new piece too quickly. Then the story began to develop
itself--wit and passion, badinage and pathos, were well intermingled. It
turned on the love of a Catholic girl, a fille d'honneur to Catherine de
Medicis, for a Huguenot, Vicomte de Valere, a friend of Conde and
Coligny. The despairing love of the woman, the fierce struggle of her
lover between his passion and his faith, the intrigues of the court, the
cruelty and weakness of Charles Neuf, were all strikingly and forcibly
written. The actors, being warmly applauded as the plot thickened and
the audience became interested, played with energy and spirit; and when
the curtain fell the success of "Scarlet and White" was proclaimed
through the house.

"Very good play--very good indeed," said Tom, approvingly. "I hope
you've been pleased, Miss L'Estrange." Valerie did not hear him; she was
trembling and breathless, her blue eyes almost black with excitement,
while Falkenstein bent over her, his face more full of animation and
pleasure than Bevan had seen it for many a day. "Well," thought Tom,
"Forester _did_ say little Val was original. I should think that was a
polite term for insane. I suppose Falkenstein's keeper."

At that minute the applause redoubled. Pomps and Vanities had announced
"Scarlet and White" for repetition, and from the pit to the gods there
was a cry for the author. Falkenstein bent his head till his lips
touched her hair, and whispered a few words. She looked up in his face.
"Do you wish me?"

"Certainly."

His word was law. She rose and went to the front of the box, a burning
color in her cheeks, smiles on her lips, and tears lying under her
lashes.

"The devil, Waldemar! Do you mean that--that little thing?" began Bevan.

Falkenstein nodded, and Tom, for once in his life astonished, forgot to
finish his sentence in staring at the author! Probably the audience also
shared his surprise, in seeing her young face and girlis