myself the pleasure of getting you an ice?"

"A glass of water, please; I am cool enough without more ice."

He seated her and went upon his errand. She was cool now; weary-footed,
sick at heart, and yearning to be alone. But in these days women do not
tear their hair and make scenes, though their hearts may ache and burn
with the same sharp suffering as of old. Till her brother came she knew
she must bear it, and make no sign. She did bear it, drank the water
with a smile, danced the dance with spirit, and bore up bravely till
Mark appeared. She was alone just then, and his first words were--

"Have you seen her?"

"No; take me where I can, and tell me what you know of her."

"Nothing, but that she is Andre's cousin, and he adores her, as boys
always do a charming woman who is kind to them. Affect to be admiring
these flowers, and look without her knowing it, or she will frown at you
like an insulted princess, as she did at me."

Sylvia looked, saw the handsomest woman in Havana, and hated her
immediately. It was but natural, for Sylvia was a very human girl, and
Ottila one whom no woman would love, however much she might admire.

Hers was that type of character which every age has reproduced, varying
externally with climates and conditions, but materially the same from
fabled Circe down to Lola Montes, or some less famous syren whose
subjects are not kings. The same passions that in ancient days broke out
in heaven-defying crimes; the same power of beauty, intellect, or
subtlety; the same untamable spirit and lack of moral sentiment are the
attributes of all; latent or alert as the noble or ignoble nature may
predominate. Most of us can recall some glimpse of such specimens of
Nature's work in a daring mood. Many of our own drawing-rooms have held
illustrations of the nobler type, and modern men and women have quailed
before royal eyes whose possessors ruled all spirits but their own. Born
in Athens, and endowed with a finer intellect, Ottila might have been an
Aspasia; or cast in that great tragedy the French Revolution, have
played a brave part and died heroically like Roland and Corday. But set
down in uneventful times, the courage, wit, and passion that might have
served high ends dwindled to their baser counterparts, and made her what
she was,--a fair allurement to the eyes of men, a born rival to the
peace of women, a rudderless nature absolute as fate.

Sylvia possessed no knowledge that could analyze fo