Lola! Yes, Lola herself, looking brilliantly lovely, a very queen of society. She wore a long trailing black gown, which followed her in sinuous lines along the soft white carpet, and shimmered as she moved, like the scales of a fish. Her arms were covered with tightly-fitting sleeves, her neck was very bare, according to the prevailing mode; the black jet set off her white skin to great advantage. A slender chain of diamonds encircled her throat and fell below her waist, and a diamond comb or crown shone amid her piled-up dark hair. In one hand she held a tiny painted fan, and she carried herself like a sovereign prepared to receive the homage of her subjects. Lola made a beautiful picture, as she stood talking with animation to the Lieutenant-Governor and became the immediate cynosure of every eye. To Lola, these were the moments that made life worth living. Angel, who had been on the point of speaking sharply to Lindsay, held her breath as this vision swam into her view. Horror, surprise, admiration, chased one another through her brain. Her face looked white and wan, all her girlish beauty seemed to shrivel up and fade, as she realised that she and her rival were now within the lists. Mr. Lindsay caught a glimpse of her expression, and exclaimed: "Oh the bewitching widow! Sandys of my service came out with her on board ship; she's just arrived from home. Isn't she a wonderful creation—and quite lovely." "Not very young," remarked a lady who sat near, "but well versed in the arts of fascination. I would give a good deal to know the name of her dressmaker!—what a wonderful gown." "Yes," agreed Lindsay, "dramatic and realistic—it's not a gown—but a personality." "Do you know what she reminds me of," continued the lady eagerly—a clever worn-looking woman, in a frumpish but expensive garment, a woman whose children and whose heart were in England—"it is a picture in a gallery in Munich. I stood before it for twenty minutes, and I went back to look at it twice; it is of a beautiful woman, a dark woman, with a face like hers—she is dressed entirely in a serpent, a great dark blue serpent, wound round her body, whose head rests confidentially over her shoulder. They are both beautiful, both similar, both wickedly fascinating—and the name of the picture is 'The Sin.'" "My dear Mrs. Frobisher," cried Lindsay, with affected horror, "how shocking—surely sin and this enchanting stranger have not even a bowing acquaintance." "Possibly not," she answered dryly, "but she and 'The Sin' are identical in appearance." "And now we are on the move," said Lindsay. "I am so fortunate as to have the honour of taking you in to dinner, Mrs. Gascoigne." Angel rose, and accepted the proffered arm in a sort of trance. Had Lola and Philip met? Would they sit near each other? Her eyes roved round anxiously, as she moved to her place at that exquisitely decorated table, covered with lovely La France roses, shining silver, and delicate ferns.