eceiving her guests, but the dark, handsome head and face of Lord
Chandos were nowhere to be seen.

Madame overwhelmed her with civilities, and Leone soon found herself the
center of an admiring crowd. The assembly was a most brilliant one;
there were princes of the blood, royal dukes, marshals of France, peers
of England, men of highest note in the land; to each and all the
radiant, beautiful artist was the center of all attraction.

A royal duke was bending over her chair, one of the noblest marshals of
France, with the young Marquis of Tyrol to assist him, was trying to
entertain her. They were lavishing compliments upon her.

Suddenly she saw some slight stir in the groups, the French marshal
murmured: "_Comme elle est belle!_" and, looking up, she saw a fair,
regal woman bowing to Madame de Chandalle--a woman whose fair, tranquil
loveliness was like moonlight on a summer's lake. Leone was charmed by
her. The graceful figure was shown to the best advantage by the dress of
rich white silk; she wore a superb suit of opals, whose hundred tints
gleamed and glistened as she moved.

"The very queen of blondes," she overheard one gentleman say to another,
her eyes riveted by the fair, tranquil loveliness of this beautiful
woman, whose dress was trimmed with white water-lilies, who wore a
water-lily in her hair and one on her white breast.

Leone watched her intently. Watching her was like reading a sweet,
half-sad poem, or listening to sweet, half-sad music--every movement was
full of sweet harmony. Leone watched this beautiful woman for some time;
every one appeared to know her; she was evidently a leader of fashion;
still she had no idea who she was. She expected, she did not know why,
to see Lord and Lady Chandos enter together.

The French marshal was the first to speak.

"You admire La Reine des Blondes, madame?" he said. "Ah, Heaven, how we
should rave in Paris over so fair a lady. Do you know who she is?"

"No," answered Leone, "but I should like to know very much. She is very
beautiful."

"It is the beauty of an angel," cried the marshal. "She is the wife of
one of the most famous men in England--she is Lady Chandos."

"Ah," said Leone, with a long, low cry.

The very mention of the name had stabbed her through the heart.

The marshal looked up in wonder.

"I beg pardon," she said, quickly, "what name did you say? A sudden
faintness seized me; the room is warm. What is the lady's name?"

She would n