quick, impetuous way asked her about it.

"Marion, you are anxious or thoughtful--which is it?" she asked.

"Thoughtful," said Lady Chandos. "I am not anxious, not in the least."

"Of what are you thinking, that it brings a shadow on that dear face of
yours?" said Lady Lanswell, kindly.

Lady Chandos turned to her, and in a low tone of voice said:

"Has Lance any very old or intimate friends in London?"

"No; none that I know of. He knows a great many people, of course, and
some very intimately, but I am not aware of any especial friendship. Why
do you ask me?"

"I fancied he had; he is so much more from home than he used to be, and
does not say where he goes."

"My dear Marion," said the countess, kindly, "Lance has many occupations
and many cares; he cannot possibly tell you every detail of how and
where he passes the time. Let me give you a little warning; never give
way to any little suspicions of your husband; that is always the
beginning of domestic misery; trust him all in all. Lance is loyal and
true to you; do not tease him with suspicions and little jealousies."

"I am not jealous," said Lady Chandos, "but it seems to me only natural
that I should like to know where my husband passes his time."

The older and wiser woman thought to herself, with a sigh, that it might
be quite as well that she should not know.

CHAPTER XLIII.

"DEATH ENDS EVERYTHING."

Madame Vanira became one of the greatest features of the day. Her beauty
and her singing made her the wonder of the world. Royalty delighted to
honor her. One evening after she had entranced a whole audience, keeping
them hanging, as it were, on every silvery note that came from her
lovely lips--people were almost wild over her--they had called her until
they were tired. Popular enthusiasm had never been so aroused. And then
the greatest honor ever paid to any singer was paid to her. Royal lips
praised her and the highest personage in the land presented her with a
diamond bracelet, worthy of the donor and the recipient. Her triumph was
at its height; that night the opera in which she played was the "Crown
Diamonds." Her singing had been perfection, her acting magnificent; she
bad electrified the audience as no other _artiste_ living could have
done; her passion, her power, her genius had carried them with her. When
she quitted the stage it was as though they woke from a long trance of
delight.

That evening crowned her "Queen of Song." No