e ladies--one stout, the other slim--were thickly veiled,
Rosemary cried out, "Oh, it's the Comtesse and Mademoiselle. They must
be going away."

Hugh said nothing, but his silence was eloquent to Evelyn, who knew now
the whole story of the girl with the soft eyes. Both were pleased that
this was the last of her; but neither quite knew Mademoiselle de
Lavalette. She had been busy with other matters besides her packing,
while la bella Madonna and her suite were collecting adorers on the
heights of Eze.

Evelyn and Rosemary disappeared to take off their hats before the grand
presentation ceremony should begin, and Hugh had begun to occupy the
time of their absence by lighting the fire with pine cones, when a cry
from the beloved voice called him to the room adjoining.

The door was open, and the woman and the child stood dumbfounded and
overwhelmed in a scene of incredible desolation.

The air was acrid with the smell of burning. Blouses, pink and green,
and cream, and blue, were stirred into a seething mass in the fireplace,
as in a witch's cauldron, their fluffy laces burnt and blackened.
Chiffon fichus torn in ribbons strewed the carpet. An ivory fan had been
trampled into fragments on the hearth-rug, and a snow-storm of feathers
from a white boa had drifted over the furniture. On the wash-stand a
spangled white tulle hat lay drowning in a basin half full of water.

[Illustration: _Their fluffy laces burnt and blackened. Chiffon fichus
torn in ribbons strewed the carpet_]

It was a sight to turn the brain of Madame in the magasin of smart
"confections," nor would the presiding genius of the toy shop have gone
scathless, for Rosemary's possessions had not been spared by the
cyclone.

Dolls had lost their wigs, their arms, their legs; and beautiful blue
eyes had been poked into far recesses of porcelain heads, with ruthless
scissors. Little dresses of silk and satin had been flung to feed the
flames which devoured ill-starred blouses; picture books had made fine
kindlings; and that proud and stately mansion which might have afforded
shelter to many dolls had collapsed as if shattered by a cyclone.

"Oh, Angel, is it some dreadful dream?" wailed Rosemary; and Evelyn
found no answer. But Hugh had pounced upon a card pinned on the window
curtain; and as he held it out, in eloquent silence, she read aloud
over his shoulder; "Compliments of Mademoiselle de Lavalette."

At the end of the first shocked instant, they b