"You know he was booked for Europe--he and Maud were, I mean. Their passage was taken on the steamer which leaves New York to-morrow. Vane has obstinately chosen to go alone. Never mind, lovey. The young simpleton will be suing your pardon some day." "Never mind me, uncle, I am not thinking of myself," she says, through white, quivering lips. "Oh, tell me what to do! I must see him for five minutes only--I must, I must, I _must_! if I have to follow him to Europe!" "Is the case so desperate as that?" he asks; "I will help you, then. Shall I telegraph him to stay in New York until----" "Not until I come," nervously. "_That_ might make him very angry." "Until _I_ come, then. For I shall go with you, of course. What could you do all alone by yourself in big New York?" "You will go--oh, you dear, kind uncle, how thankful I am!" she cries, kissing his withered old cheek in the fervor of her gratitude. "Now, I shall be brave as a lion. Oh, pray telegraph him this hour, if possible!" CHAPTER X. "Now, Reine, I know the hotel where Vane stays when he comes to New York. If he received my telegram he will be waiting there for me. I will go and bring him to you." They are in a small, private parlor of a hotel in New York. Reine, very dusty and anxious-looking, is walking up and down the floor, never having even removed her hat. "I will bring him to you," Mr. Langton repeats. "Now, dear, go to your room and bathe your face and hands, and brush your hair. Do not let your husband find you so dusty and travel-stained." "As if he cared," she says, with infinite mournfulness, yet obeying his hint all the same. She looks with dim, pathetic eyes at the pale, grave face in the mirror. "How these few days have changed me," she sighs. "No wonder! Yet I did not know it was in my nature to suffer such pain. If Vane cared for me he must be startled at the change. But he does not love me, and never will, alas!" She waits, perhaps the longest half an hour she ever knew in her gay, careless life. Mr. Langton comes at last--alone! "Whew! how confoundedly hot and dusty is New York at this season," he splutters, mopping his face with his handkerchief. "The thermometer up in the nineties, and the dust in clouds that choke and blind one. An hour of life at Langton Villa is worth a year in this noisy, abominable place. Reine, let us go home." She stares at him with wide, dismayed dark eyes. "Uncle, he--he is gone?" she falters. "Gone, yes, the impertinent young puppy," he growls. "Gone without a word, utterly ignored me and my telegram. I wish to Heaven----" he pauses with a dark frown. "What, Uncle Langton?" with pathetic wistfulness. "That--that I'd never married you to him, the scamp!" he blurts out in a fury. "He has treated us both with the most distinct contempt. We will go home, dearie, and Vane Charteris may go to the devil!" This from the irate old man, but Reine looks at him bravely.