But while she regulates the social element, she does not ignore sympathy between mind and body, and knowing that the nearest way to men’s hearts is through their palates, secures the services of a noted _chef_, who drives to the Rue Tronchet in his own _chic_ brougham, and disburses himself of a hundred-guinea diamond ring before he commences the momentous operation of trussing an ortolan. This Wednesday night most of the guests are assembled in the _salon_. Lounging on a sofa is a superb brunette, perfectly dressed and bejewelled. She is Leonide Leroux, a dramatic star both in Paris and London. By her side, languidly stroking his moustache, sits Ivan Scoboloff, a Russian baron with more money than brains. Beside these are little Rose Marigny, soubrette at the Theatre des Galléries, Monsieur Chavard, dramatic critic and author, and Louis, Marquis de Belcour, a good-looking giant and as rich as Crœsus. Mademoiselle Ange is not herself to-night. Lovely, of course, but with the sparkle of her beauty lacking, as she reclines in a red velvet chair, in an artistic pose, and gives small heed to the little tittle-tattle around. The last Parisian scandal is discussed, the last _mot_ of the coulisses related, but, contrary to her usual habit, Marguerite is evidently _distraite_, and every now and then she throws anxious glances towards the door. The full light of the crystal chandelier falls upon the snowy white of her skin, the exquisite rose and opal tints of her lips and cheeks, and her large black eyes full of passion and fire. The strongest glare can only show up her brilliance, and find no flaw or blemish in the marvellous colouring that looks as if it was Nature’s own handiwork. All that the best Parisian _modiste_ can do has been done for her, and she is exceptionally well got up this evening; for she has abandoned her usual preference for gorgeous hues and costly heavy materials, and her trailing skirts of purest white fall in cloud-like masses round her as she leans back with the mien of a young empress. Opals and brilliants fasten the laces on her bosom, and a single tropical flower, with blood-red petals, gleams near her slender throat. Suddenly a radiant light flashes in her restless eyes. The _portière_ is held back, and Lord Delaval enters. As he approaches, a vivid flush of pleasure surges over her lovely face, and, as he takes her hand, she says, in a low, reproachful voice: “I feared so much you were not coming, but you have come! Will you take me in?” He offers her his arm and at this moment catches sight of De Belcour, who is looking at him with ill-concealed jealousy and vexation. He has met this man before, a year or two ago, and nods recognition, then, turning towards his companion, forgets his existence.