The worst had happened--she had seen him, he had seen her; he had looked in her face, he had watched her intently, yet she felt quite sure he was not certain of her identity--he fancied that he knew her, yet could not for certain tell; so that the worst, she believed, was over. It might be that he would talk to her, that he would try every little ruse and every possible maneuver, but what would that matter? She would defeat him again with her calm and her nonchalance, just as she had done this time. Then he would assuredly give it up, and say no more about it--make up his mind that he had been mistaken. So she comforted herself with vague ideas, never dreaming that each hour brought the somber face of tragedy nearer to her. The next day was the Duchess of Eastham's ball, one of the best of the season--one to which she had looked forward as a crowning triumph. A night's rest, a natural facility for shaking off disagreeable thoughts, a fixed reliance on her own kindly fate, all contributed to make her throw off the dark cloud that oppressed her. When she joined the earl and countess the following morning, her face had regained its lost color and brightness, her eyes shone like stars, her lips were wreathed with smiles. "We shall have a large gathering to-night," said Lady Linleigh. "I hear the Eastham ball is considered the best of the season; all the _elite_ of London will be there." "Then Lord Vivianne is sure to be there," she thought. Her spirits rose with the emergency. "I will look my best," she said to herself; "I will dazzle him so completely in my splendor and magnificence that he shall not dare even in thought to associate me with the Doris he knew." She spent some hours of the bright, sunny morning in the park, smiling to herself, as she thought what an old-fashioned recipe was fresh air and exercise for keeping a brilliant bloom. She rested after lunch, and spent some time in the evening combining jewels and flowers, so as to form a marvelous effect. To her maid she said: "Eugenie, I want to be the belle of the belles to-night; you must exert all your skill." The pretty Parisian stood with her head on one side, studying the face and figure she had to adorn. "What kind of style does my lady wish? Shall it be gay, brilliant?" "Magnificent!" said Lady Studleigh, laughing. "I wish to be magnificent as a queen--an empress!" "It will not be difficult, my lady," was the smiling reply.