The curtain falls and rises twice over, and she thanks Providence that for once her people leave her alone so that she may gaze her fill. Who knows when they two will meet again--and how? The girl’s poor heart grows cold as ice when the _dénouement_ of the play comes, and Ferdinand, praying for the boon of a last kiss, the Lady Yolande yields her proud lips to him. Yields them _con amore_, too, it seems to Zai, as she shrinks back from the sight with a jealous pang that makes her shiver and clasp her little hands desperately together. Then the curtain falls for the last time, and she looks up and catches Lord Delaval’s eye. It seems to be searching her very soul with a fixed, keen gaze that has something regretful about it, though his lips have a half-mocking smile. “That fellow, Conway, really acts tolerably,” he says aloud to Gabrielle. “Did you notice the ring of pathos and truth in his voice? And yet those sort of chaps lead such a hollow life of shams and tricks, that they can’t possibly have a genuine feeling in them. What do you think of Flora Fitzallan, Miss Beranger?” “Just what one thinks of such creatures,” Gabrielle answers contemptuously, “outside all paint and powder. Inside----” “Pray don’t give your opinion on people like Miss Fitzallan, Gabrielle. They are not fit subjects for your discussion; at any rate before me and my daughters!” Lady Beranger remarks severely. Gabrielle elevates her brows and shrugs her shoulders. Then, as her stepmother sweeps away, she says: “I think one thing about Miss Fitzallan, Lord Delaval. I think she has a _grande passion_ for Carl Conway, and I expect she does not try to hide it--_off the stage_!” And Zai hearkens in bitterness of spirit, but does not love Carl one whit the less. “I say, Zai, did you see that Lady Yolande kiss Carl? She kissed him _right on the mouth_. And I have heard that it is not _convenable_ to do that sort of thing on the stage!” Baby whispers. And still Zai holds her tongue, but as she listens, it seems to her that it is the last straw to break the camel’s back. [Illustration: text decoration] CHAPTER V. CARYLLON HOUSE. “You loved me, and you loved me not A little, much, and over much; Will you forget, as I forgot? Let all dead things lie dead--such Are not soft to touch.” Fanchette, having arrayed Trixy and Baby for the Duchess of Caryllon’s fancy ball, finally seeks Zai. Zai--who still lies dreaming her love’s young dream in the soft twilight, while a star or two peeps down inquisitively through the open window upon the increased loveliness that love has called up on her sweet face. Regretfully she rises at Fanchette’s entrance, and certainly no fairer daughter of Belgravia ever tripped through Belgravian _salons_. When her toilette is complete, Fanchette does wonders with her little artistic touches here and there, and Zai’s costume, though simple, is exquisitely picturesque.