osed to. I have
seen a Russian prince who was a hostler, an English lord who was an
attendant in a gambling house, and an Italian count porter on a
railway. Over here, where titles are rare, they make one conspicuous;
I perceived that in New Orleans. I have no desire to be especially
conspicuous. I only want to enjoy myself."

"You can't help people noticing you a great deal, with or without a
title," and Mrs. McVeigh smiled at her understandingly. "You cannot
hope to escape being distinguished, but you shall be whatever you like
at the Terrace."

They walked arm in arm the length of the veranda, chatting lightly of
Parisian days and people until ten o'clock sounded from the tall clock
in the library. Mrs. McVeigh counted the strokes and exclaimed at the
lateness.

"I certainly am a poor enough hostess to weary you the first evening
with chatter instead of sending you to rest, after such a drive," she
said, in self accusation. "But you are such a temptation--Judithe."

They both laughed at her slight hesitation over the first attempt at
the name.

"Never mind; you will get used to it in time," promised the Marquise,
"I am glad you call me 'Judithe.'"

Then they said good night; she acknowledged she did feel sleepy--a
little--though she had forgotten it until the clock struck.

Mrs. McVeigh left her at the door and went on down the hall to her own
apartment--a little regretful lest Judithe should be over wearied by
the journey and the evening's gossip.

But she really looked a very alert, wide-awake young lady as she
divested herself of the dark green travelling dress and slipped into
the luxurious lounging robe Mademoiselle Louise held ready.

Her brows were bent in a frown of perplexity very different from the
gay smile with which she had parted from her hostess. She glanced at
her attendant and read there anxiety, even distress.

"Courage, Louise," she said, cheerily; "all is not lost that's in
danger. Horrors! What a long face! Look at yourself in the mirror. I
have not seen such a mournful countenance since the taking of New
Orleans."

"And it was not your mirror showed a mournful countenance that day,
Marquise," returned the other. "I am glad some one can laugh; but for
me, I feel more like crying, and that's the truth. Heavens! How long
that time seemed until you came."

"I know," and the glance of her mistress was very kind. "I could feel
that you were walking the floor and waiting, but it was not