"I must do it," said the countess, to herself, with desperation. "Appeal to my son is worse than useless. I must appeal to the woman I fear he loves. Who could have imagined or prophesied that I should ever have been compelled to stoop to her, yet stoop I must, if I would save my son!" With Lady Lanswell, to resolve was to do; when others would have beaten about the bush she went direct. On the afternoon of that day she made out Leone's address, and ordered the carriage. It was a sign of fear with her that she was so particular with her toilet; it was seldom that she relied, even in the least, on the advantages of dress, but to-day she made a toilet almost imperial in its magnificence--rich silk and velvet that swept the ground in superb folds, here and there gleaming a rich jewel. The countess smiled as she surveyed herself in the mirror, a regal, beautiful lady. Surely no person sprung from Leone's class would dare to oppose her. It was on a beautiful, bright afternoon that my lady reached the pretty house where Madame Vanira lived. A warm afternoon, when the birds sung in the green shade of the trees, when the bees made rich honey from the choice carnations, and the butterflies hovered round the budding lilies. The countess drove straight to the house. She left her carriage at the outer gates, and walked through the pretty lawn; she gave her card to the servant and was shown into the drawing-room. The Countess of Lanswell would not have owned for the world that she was in the least embarrassed, but the color varied in her face, and her lips trembled ever so little. In a few minutes Leone entered--not the terrified, lowly, loving girl, who braved her presence because she loved her husband so well; this was a proud, beautiful, regal woman, haughty as the countess herself--a woman who, by force of her wondrous beauty and wondrous voice, had placed the world at her feet. The countess stepped forward with outstretched hands. "Madame Vanira," she said, "will you spare me a few minutes? I wish to speak most particularly with you." Leone rang the bell and gave orders that she was not to be disturbed. Then the two ladies looked at each other. Leone knew that hostilities were at hand, although she could not quite tell why. The countess opened the battle by saying, boldly: "I ought, perhaps, to tell you, Madame Vanira, that I recognize you." Leone looked at her with proud unconcern. "I recognize you now, although I failed to do so when I first saw you. I congratulate you most heartily on your success." "On what success?" she asked. "On your success as an actress and a singer. I consider you owe me some thanks." "Truly," said Leone, "I owe you some thanks." The countess did not quite like the tone of voice in which those words were uttered; but it was her policy to be amiable. "Your genius has taken me by surprise," she said; "yet, when I recall the only interview I ever had with you, I recognize the dramatic talent you displayed."