the mention of the
Spaniard's name; secondly, because of the description of the man, which
had a romantic sound. The very word tropic suggested a romance. And
Lesbia, whose mind was jaded by the monotony of a London season, the
threadbare fabric of society conversation, kindled at any image which
appealed to her fancy.

Clever as Satan, handsome as Apollo, scion of an old Castilian family,
fresh from the tropics. Her imagination dwelt upon the ideas which these
words had conjured up.

Three days after this she was at the opera with her chaperon, her lover
in attendance as usual. The opera was "Faust," with Nillson as
Marguerite. After the performance they were to drive down to Twickenham
on Mr. Smithson's drag, and to dance and sup at the Orleans. The last
ball of the season was on this evening; and Lesbia had been persuaded
that it was to be a particular _recherche_ ball, and that only the very
nicest people were to be present. At any rate, the drive under the light
of a July moon would be delicious; and if they did not like the people
they found there they could eat their supper and come away immediately
after, as Lady Kirkbank remarked philosophically.

The opera was nearly over--that grand scene of Valentine's death was
on--and Lesbia was listening breathlessly to every note, watching every
look of the actors, when there came a modest little knock at the door of
her box. She darted an angry glance round, and shrugged her shoulders
vexatiously. What Goth had dared to knock during that thrilling scene?

Mr. Smithson rose and crept to the door and quietly opened it.

A dark, handsome man, who was a total stranger to Lesbia, glided in,
shaking hands with Smithson as he entered.

Till this moment Lesbia's whole being had been absorbed in the
scene--that bitter anathema of the brother, the sister's cry of anguish
and shame. Where else is there tragedy so human, so enthralling--grief
that so wrings the spectator's heart? It needed a Goethe and a Gounod to
produce this masterpiece.

In an instant, in a flash, Lesbia's interest in the stage was gone. Her
first glance at the stranger told, her who he was. The olive tint, the
eyes of deepest black, the grand form of the head and perfect chiselling
of the features could belong only to that scion of an old Castilian race
whom she had heard described the other evening--'clever as Satan,
handsome as Apollo.'

Yes, this must be the man, Don Gomez de Montesma. There was no