He led the way to the library and closed the door behind them. Madame
Jumel threw off her cloak, and stood before him in the magnificence of
cloth of gold and many diamonds. Her neck blazed, and the glittering
tower of her hair was a jewel garden. She was one of the women for whom
splendour of attire was conceived, and had always looked her best when
in full regalia. To-night she was the most superb creature that man had
ever seen or dreamed of. Even her great eyes looked like jewels, deep
and burning as that blue jewel of the West Indies, the Caribbean Sea;
but her lips and cheeks were like soft pink roses. Hamilton had seen her
many times since the day of parting, for she went constantly to the
theatre, and had been invited to the larger receptions until her
reckless Jacobinism had put the final touch to the disapproval of
Federal dames; but he had never seen her in such beauty as she was
to-night. Eleven years had perfected this beauty, taken from it nothing.
He sighed, and the past rose for a moment; but it seemed a century
behind him.

"Will you not sit down?" he asked. "Can I fetch you a glass of wine? I
remember you never liked it, but perhaps, after so long a drive--"

"I do not wish any wine," said Madame Jumel, shortly. She was nonplussed
by this matter-of-fact acceptance of a situation which she had intended
should be intensely dramatic. She was not yet gone, however.

"No one ever could get the best of you, Hamilton," she exclaimed. "I
have come here to-night--how terribly delicate you look," she faltered,
with a sudden pallor. "I have not seen you for so long--"

"My health does not give me the least concern," said Hamilton,
hurriedly, wondering if he could lay his hand on a bottle of
smelling-salts without awaking his wife. "Pray go on. To what am I
indebted for the honour of this visit?"

Madame Jumel rose and swept up and down the long room twice. "Can there
be anything in that tale of royal blood?" thought Hamilton. "Or in that
other tale of equally distinguished parentage?"

She had paused with her back to him, facing one of the bookcases.

"Classics, classics, classics!" she exclaimed, in a voice which grew
steadier as she proceeded. "That was the only taste we did not share.
Don Quixote in Spanish, Dante and Alfieri in Italian; and all the German
brutes. Ah! Voltaire! Rousseau! What superb editions! No one can bind
but the French. And the dear old _Moniteur_--all bound for posterity,
which w