"Major Malpas!" she cried loudly. "Hush!" he exclaimed, throwing down his hat. "Hear me now, for the time has come, and I must speak, even though it be to wound the heart of the tenderest and sweetest of women. Renee, can I call the man friend who deliberately forsakes you for the society of a notorious woman--an actress!" "Friend? No," cried Renee with flashing eyes, as she rose to ring; but he caught her wrist and stayed her. "No; nor he you, if this is your friendship--to come and blacken my husband's name with foul calumny to his wife." "Stop!" he said. "You shall not ring. Calumny! foul! Is it a foul calumny to say that he was driving her in the Park to-day, that he is dining with her and her friends to-night? Shame, Renee, that you should speak thus to the man who has ever been your faithful slave." "Major Malpas, I insist upon your leaving me this instant. There is the door!" "Leave you! No," he cried, seizing her other hand, as he fell upon his knees at her feet, "not till I have told you, Renee, that the old love never died in my heart, but has grown up stronger, day by day, till it has mastered my very being." That same night there was a party given by Madame Dorinde, limited to eight, fairly balanced between the sexes. The dinner was to be good, the supply of wines very liberal, especially as they cost the hostess nothing. But they were a curious collection of guests, such as would have puzzled a student of human nature. Certainly he would have understood the status of Madame Dorinde, a handsome, showy woman, with plenty of smart repartee on her lips, and an abundance of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds for neck, arms and fingers--the gifts of the admirers of her histrionic powers. He would have told you that this would be a bright and gay career for a few years, and then probably she would drop out of sight. There was a pretty, fair girl with good features and the glow of youth on her cheeks, putting to shame the additions of paint, and who seemed to think it right to laugh loudly and boisterously at everything said to her; there was Miss Grace Lister, the first burlesque actress of the day, dark, almost gipsy-looking in her swarthy complexion, whose colour was heightened by the novelty and excitement of the scene; Lottie Deloraine, _nee_ Simpkins, of the Marquise Theatre; Frank Morrison and a couple of washed-out habitues of the stalls lounged about the room, and the assembled company were beginning to wonder why dinner was not announced. "What are we waiting for, Dory?" said Morrison at last. "Aren't we all here?" "Only for an old friend of mine. You know him--John Huish," said the hostess rather maliciously; and then she added to herself, "He'll keep your eyes off Gracy Lister, my gentleman."