"She has been grieving over the loss of Leslie Dane," Felise answered, carelessly. She goes to the piano, strikes a few chords, and gets up again, wandering about the room restlessly. There is a marked fitfulness and unrest in her every movement, and her eyes flash and roll about in their sockets in a way that troubles her mother. "Felise, do you sleep well at night?" she inquires, abruptly. "Why should I not?" the girl asks, turning her head away. "I do not know; but there is a haggardness and restlessness about you as if you didn't sleep much. I fancy you are getting nervous and wakeful brooding over this revenge of yours. Your face has grown wan and your eyes quite wild. Take care of yourself or you will lose your beauty." "Never mind, mother; when we go to Paris next year I will go to one of those wonderful women there and have myself made beautiful forever." "To Paris? Do you really mean it, Felise? I thought you said the last time we went abroad that you were tired of it and never meant to go again." "I have changed my mind, mother. That is the privilege of the fair sex, you know." "I suppose you have some motive in this change of mind, Felise." "Yes. I have. I want to be on hand when Mrs. Carlyle comes forth from her finishing school. I have a fancy to see her after the polishing process is completed." She laughs softly to herself as if something pleasant has occurred to her. "Well, well, have your own way about it, my dear--you always do. But I wish you could forget the Carlyles and enjoy life better. We have everything to make it enjoyable, and if you wanted to marry, why you could buy almost anyone you wanted with our wealth." "I could not buy Colonel Carlyle, mother, though I wanted him very much. He is the wealthiest man I know of anywhere." "You do not need to marry for wealth, my daughter; we have enough of our own." Felise did not answer. She was absorbed in thought. Nothing Mrs. Arnold could say made the least impression on her mind. She was wedded to one idea, and as the weeks and months rolled by it only took a firmer hold on her feelings. CHAPTER XXIII. "Madam Carlyle, monsieur, your husband, awaits you in the _salon_." The tall, beautiful blonde, practicing a difficult sonata at the piano, pauses a moment and suffers her white hands to rest idly on the keys. "Colonel Carlyle, did you say, madam?" she inquires calmly. The dignified head of the Parisian school bows in assent, and stands awaiting her pupil's pleasure. The latter rises slowly, folds her music together, restores it to the proper place and turns to leave the music-room. "You will wish to make some changes in your dress, of course," the lady superior blandly asserts.