Lady Chandos was always well pleased when her husband complimented her on her dress; if he forgot it, she generally reminded him of it. She looked very beautiful this evening; her dress was of white satin, effectively trimmed with dead gold, and she wore diamonds with rubies--no one there looked better than the queen of blondes. "I am quite impatient to see La Vanira," she said to her husband. "I wonder why she has chosen this opera, 'L'Etoile du Nord;' it is not the usual thing for a _debutante_." Then the words died on her lips and for some minutes she said no more. The curtain was drawn up and Madame Vanira appeared. There was a dead silence for some few minutes, then there was a storm of applause; her beautiful face won it, her grand figure, her eyes, with their fire of passion, seemed to demand it. Of all characters, perhaps that of the loving, impassionate Star of the North suited her best. In it she found expression for love, her passion and despair. She stood before what was perhaps the most critical audience in the world, and she thrilled them with her power. It was no more a woman; she seemed more like an inspired sibyl; her audience hung on every note, on every word from those wonderful lips; while she charmed all ears she charmed all eyes; the beauty of her magnificent face, the beauty of her superb figure, the grandeur of her attitudes, the inimitable grace of her actions were something new and wonderful. From the first moment the curtain rose until it fell the whole audience was breathless. Lady Chandos laid down her jeweled opera-glass while she drew a breath of relief, it was so wonderful to her, this woman all fire, and genius and power. "Lance," she said to her husband, "what a wonderful face it is. Have you looked well at it?" She glanced carelessly at her husband as she spoke, then started at the change in him; his whole face had altered, the expression of careless interest had died, the color and light had died, his dark eyes had a strained, bewildered look; they were shadowed as though by some great doubt or fear. "Lance," said his wife, "are you not well? You look so strange--quite unlike yourself." He turned away lest she should see his face more plainly, and then she continued: "If you are not well, we will go home, dear; nothing will interest me without you." He made a great effort and spoke to her; but the very tone of his voice was altered, all the sweetness and music had gone out of it. "I am well," he said, "pray do not feel anxious over me; the house is very full and very warm." "What do you think of La Vanira?" continued Lady Chandos; "how very different she is to any one else." He laughed, and the sound was forced and unnatural. "I think she is very wonderful," he replied. "And beautiful?" asked Lady Marion, with a look of eager anxiety. He was too wise and too wary to reply with anything like enthusiasm.