the face at Lady Throckmorton's side that had caused
such a sudden accession to the list of the faithful. But this was the
case, nevertheless, and Lady Throckmorton was by no means unconscious of
it. Of course, it was quite natural that people who had forgotten her in
London should remember her in Paris; but it was even more natural that
persons who did not care for her at all, should be filled with
admiration for Theo in rose-colored satin. And so it was. Such a change
came over the girl's life all at once, that, as it revealed itself to
her, she was tempted to rub her bright eyes in her doubt as to the
reality of it.

Two weeks after she reached Paris she awoke and found herself famous;
she, Theodora North, to whom, as yet, Downport and shabbiness, and
bread-and-butter cutting, were the only things that appeared real enough
not to vanish at a touch. People of whom she had read six months ago,
regarding their very existence as almost mythical, flattered, applauded,
followed her. They talked of her, they praised her, they made high-flown
speeches to her, at which she blushed, and glowed, and opened her
lovely, half-uncomprehending eyes. She was glad they liked her, grateful
for their attentions, half-confused under them; but it was some time
before she understood the full meaning of their homage. In rose-colored
satin and diamonds she dazzled them; but in simple white muslin, with a
black-velvet ribbon about her perfect throat, and a great white rose in
her dark hair, she was a glowing young goddess, of whom they raved
extravagantly, and who might have made herself a fashion, if she had
been born a few years earlier, and been born in Paris.

Lady Throckmorton was actually proud of her, and committed extravagances
she might have repented of, if the girl had not been so affectionately
grateful and tractable. Then, as might be expected, there arose out of
the train the indefatigable adorer, who is the fate of every pretty or
popular girl. But in this case he was by no means unpleasant. He was
famous, witty, and fortunate. He was no less a personage than the
_attache_, of whom she had written to Pamela, and his name was Victor
Maurien. He had been before all the rest, and so had gained some slight
footing, which he was certainly not the man to relinquish. He had gained
ground with Lady Throckmorton too, and in Denis Oglethorpe's absence,
had begun almost to fill his place. He was graceful, faithful in her
ladyship's servi