“Who sent the box for to-night?” she asks, for she knows Lady Beranger never spends her money on such things. “Lord Delaval.” Zai colours again, and stoops down on pretence of picking up her pencil. She _feels_ that Gabrielle is looking at her. “That man has sent it on purpose to vex me,” she thinks. “I detest him.” CHAPTER IV. AT THE BAGATELLE THEATRE. “Why did she love him? Curious fool, be still, Is human love the growth of human will?” When Lady Beranger and her party enter a large stage-box and settle themselves noiselessly in their seats, the first act of ‘Hearts _versus_ Diamonds’ has begun, and the big bass is booming out a lugubrious overture to Ferdinand--the deserted lover’s reproaches to his faithless and diamond-worshipping Lady Yolande. On the whole Carlton Conway looks superbly handsome and effective, when, as Ferdinand, he takes up a highly picturesque pose right in the centre of the stage. His head erect, his chest well thrown out, a little after Kyrle Bellew; his shirt-front ample; his tail-coat, and waistcoat and trousers, his patent leather boots, unimpeachable; and a gardenia from Hooper’s, in Oxford Street, although he can ill-afford the half-a-crown paid for it, fresh and snowy and fragrant, reposing on his broad breast. With one white hand uplifted, the forefinger pointing in scorn; the third finger sparkling with a tiny but pure brilliant (Zai’s gift), he hurls: “Oh, cursed hunger of pernicious gold, What bands of faith can impious lucre hold?” in a deep, impassioned voice, that fairly electrifies his audience, but makes very little impression apparently on the Lady Yolande, who has quite made up her mind to give up love and poverty for a comfortable mansion in Mayfair and plenty of diamonds and money. Miss Flora Fitzallan, as the Lady Yolande, is at her best to-night. She looks, in fact, as if a whole page of “Debrett” was devoted to her ancestry, thereby proving that we are not what we seem, and often seem what we are not. In the palest of blue brocades, heavily embroidered with silver, and a tuft of pale blue ostrich tips placed jauntily a little on one side of her head, and a long Court train, edged with the very best imitation ermine, she looks quite good enough for a leader of Society. On the finger of scorn being pointed at her, the Lady Yolande laughs tragically, and with an artistic twirl of her skirt swoops down close to the foot-lights, and while her glance roves over the _jeunesse dorée_ gathered in the stalls, cries in a contralto voice: