Many months had elapsed since Malcolm Haig bartered his heart in exchange for a photograph; he was once more resigned to the monotonous round of regimental duty in an Indian cantonment, had purchased a promising pony, who ran at small meetings under the mysterious initial of "V. C."--a "V. C." who was gradually absorbing the interest once given to her namesake, and, to tell the plain unvarnished truth, the memory of a certain dazzling princess had become a little dim! Madame de Godez and Verona were in England. They had no occasion now to dread the Dover Custom House, for Dog Darling was defunct. His death had been a genuine grief to his mistress, who looked as if she too would soon cross the frontier of an unknown land. The old lady was changed, a life of uninterrupted self-indulgence had begun to tell at last. There were deep lines in her face, and pouches under her eyes, her breath was scanty and her spirits were low. She had come to London in order to consult a specialist, and to confer with her man of business, and for some weeks had been established in the best suite of a well-known private hotel off Piccadilly. It was a foggy night in March, the lamps across the way were barely discernible, the traffic had almost ceased. In a stately drawing-room, Madame, hunched up in a low chair, was cowering over the fire. As she sat staring into the coals with a far-away, vacant expression, she looked very old, and dark, and sick--despite a splendid satin tea-gown, and the pearl-powder on her face. Verona, her pride and boast, was now transformed from a mere beauty on exhibition to an affectionate and efficient nurse--Madame's unwearied comforter and companion. She had been reading aloud since dinner time, in a clear steady voice, detailed descriptions of fashionable doings and particulars of a great wedding: such news as the soul of her listener loved, until Madame, who had been inattentive for a long time, suddenly exclaimed in a fretful tone: "There, there, Verona, child, that will do! Turn off the lights, they hurt my eyes, and come and sit by the fire and talk to me." "Yes, auntie," she answered, promptly putting aside the paper and lowering the lights, "and now"--taking one of the old woman's hands in hers and stroking it softly--"tell me, what shall we talk about?" "I've been thinking of the Prince," was the unexpected answer. "How I wish you had married him! He was a nice fellow, and if he had no money--what matter for thatt!" "I could not have married him, dear." "Why nott?" "Because he was so effeminate, so sentimental, and, above all, so dark. Why he was like a black-a-moor!" "Verona, it is awfullee wicked to talk like that!" cried Madame, with unusual excitement. "What harm is a little black blood to anyone? It is a great sin to be so particular--some of the Saints are ink-black in their pictures. Oh, you may yet be punished for such shocking pride!"