anced, and Valerie was alone. She received him
joyously, for unhappy as she was in his absence, the mere sight of his
face recalled her old spirits, and Falkenstein, in all probability,
never guessed a tithe she suffered, because she had always a smile for
him.

"Oh! Count Waldemar," she cried, "why have you never been to the
Gardens this week? If you only knew how I miss you----"

"I have had no time," he answered, coldly.

"You could make time if you wished," said Valerie, passionately. "You
are so cold, so unkind to me lately. Have I vexed you at all?"

"Vexed me, Miss L'Estrange? Certainly not."

She was silent, chilled, despite herself.

"Why do you call me Miss L'Estrange?" she said, suddenly. "You know I
cannot bear it from _you_."

"What should I call you?"

"Valerie," she answered, softly.

He got up and walked to the hearth-rug, playing with Spit and Puppet
with his foot, and for once hailed, as a relief, the entrance of Bella,
in an extensive morning toilet, fresh from "shopping." She looked
rapidly and angrily from him to Valerie, and attacked him at once.
Seeing her cousin's vivacity told, she went in for the same stakes, with
but slight success, being a young lady of the heavy artillery stamp,
with no light action about her.

"Oh! Mr. Falkenstein," she began, "that exquisite play--you've seen it,
of course? Captain Boville told me I should be delighted with it, and so
I was. Don't you think it enchanting?"

"It is very clever," answered Falkenstein, gravely.

"Val missed a great treat," continued Bella; "nothing would make her go
last night; however, she never likes anything I like. I should love to
know who wrote it; some people say a woman, but I would never believe
it."

"The witty raillery and unselfish devotion of the heroine might be
dictated by a woman's head and heart, but the passion, and vigor, and
knowledge of human nature indicate a masculine genius," replied
Waldemar.

Valerie gave him such a grateful, rapturous glance, that, had Bella been
looking, might have disclosed the secret; but she was studying her
dainty gloves, and went on:

"Could it be Westland Marston--Sterling Coyne?"

Falkenstein shook his head. "If it were, they would put their name on
the play-bills."

"You naughty man! I do believe you could tell me if you chose. _Are_ you
not, now, in the author's confidence?"

The corner of Falkenstein's mouth went up in an irresistible smile as he
telegraphed a gla