"There was a very beautiful girl at the opera in Vienna; her name was Piccardi, a daughter of a good old Roman family. You can't imagine how admired she was! And she was thought to be on the point of marrying Count Baddenoff; Mr. Longcluse, it seems, chose to be in love with her; he was not then anything like so rich as he became afterwards--and this poor girl was killed." "Good heavens! Richard--what can you mean?" "I mean that she was assassinated, and that from that day Mr. Longcluse was never received in society in Vienna, and had to leave it." "You ought to tell May Penrose," said she, after a silence of dismay. "Not for the world," said Richard; "she talks enough for six--and where's the good? She'll only take up the cudgels for him, and we shall be in the centre of a pretty row." "Well, if you think it best----" she began. "Certainly," said he. And a silence followed. "Here is a carriage at the door," said Richard Arden. "Let us dismiss Longcluse, and look a little more like ourselves." That evening there came letters as usual to Mr. Longcluse, and among others a note from Lady May Penrose, reminding him of her little garden-party at Richmond next day. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, starting up and reading the cards on his chimney, "I thought it was the day after. It was very good-natured, poor old thing, her reminding me. I shall see Alice Arden there. Not one line does she vouchsafe. But is not she right? I think the more highly of her for not writing. I don't think she ought to write. Oh, Heaven grant she may meet me as usual? Does she mean it? If she did not, would she not have got her brother to write, or have written herself a cold line, to end our acquaintance?" So he tried to comfort himself, and to keep alive his dying hope by these artificial stimulants. CHAPTER XXIX. THE GARDEN PARTY. Next morning Mr. Longcluse rose with a sense of something before him. "So I shall see her to-day! If she's the girl I've thought her, she will meet me as usual. That frantic scene, in which I risked all on the turn of a die, will be forgotten. Hasty words, or precipitate letters, are passed over every day; the man who commits such follies, under a transitory insanity, is allowed the privilege of recalling them. There were no witnesses present to make forgiveness difficult. It all lies with her own good sense, and a heart proud but gentle. Let but those mad words be sponged out, and I am happy. Alice, if you forgive me, I forgive your brother, and take his name from where it is, and write it in my heart. Oh, beautiful Alice! will you belie your looks? Oh, clear bright mind! will you be clouded and perverted? Oh, gentle heart! can you be merciless?"