And she spoke truthfully. The proud and haughty countess found herself much impressed by the grace, genius, and beauty of Madame Vanira. Leone had looked forward to the evening of the ball as to an ordeal that must be passed through. She dreaded it, yet longed for it. She could not rest for thinking of it. She was to enter as a guest the house where she should have reigned mistress. She was to be the visitor of the woman who had taken her place. How should she bear it? how would it pass? For the first time some of the terrible pain of jealousy found its way into her heart--a pain that blanched her face, and made her tremble; a new pain to her in the fire of its burning. When the night of the ball came it found her with a pale face; her usual radiant coloring faded, and she looked all the lovelier for it. She dressed herself with unusual care and magnificence. "I must look my best to-night," she said to herself, with a bitter smile. "I am going to see the home that should have been my own. I am going to visit Lady Chandos, and I believed myself to be Lady Chandos and no other. I must look my best." She chose a brocade of pale amber that looked like woven sunbeams; it was half covered with point lace and trimmed with great creamy roses. She wore a _parure_ of rubies, presented by an empress, who delighted in her glorious voice; on her beautiful neck, white and firm as a pillar, she wore a necklace of rubies; on her white breast gleamed a cross of rubies, in which the fire flashed like gleams of light. She had never looked so magnificently beautiful. The low dress showed the white shining arms and shoulders like white satin. The different emotions that surged through her whole heart and soul gave a softened tenderness to the beautiful, passionate face. She was a woman at whose feet a man could kneel and worship; who could sway the heart and soul of a man as the wind sways the great branches of strong trees. On the morning of the day of the ball, a bouquet arrived for her, and she knew that it held her favorite flowers, white lilies-of-the-valley, with sweet hanging bells and gardenias that filled the whole room with perfume. She had nerve enough to face the most critical audience in the world. She sung while kings and queens looked on in wonder; the applause of great multitudes had never made her heart beat or her pulses thrill; but as she drove to Stoneland House a faint, languid sensation almost overcame her; how should she bear it? What should she do? More than once the impulse almost mastered her to return, and never see Lord Chandos again; but the pain, the fever and the longing urged her on. It was like a dream to her, the brilliantly-lighted mansion, the rows of liveried servants, the spacious entrance-hall lined with flowers, the broad white staircase with the crimson carpet, the white statues holding crimson lamps. She walked slowly up that gorgeous staircase, every eye riveted by her queenly beauty. She said to herself: