All this she said quietly and frankly; and Mrs. Christmas sate stunned and silent. It seemed to the old woman that some terrible calamity had occurred. She could not follow the subtle sympathies and distinctions of which the young actress spoke: she knew only that something had happened to destroy the old familiar compact between them, and that the future was full of a gloomy uncertainty. "I don’t know what to say, Miss Annie. You know best what your feelings are. I know there’s something wrong somewhere——" "Don’t talk so mournfully," said she. "If I don’t act any more we shall find something else to keep us out of starvation." "If you don’t act any more!" said the old woman, in a bewildered way. "If you don’t act any more! Tell me, Miss Annie, what you mean. You’re not serious? You don’t mean that because your ’Rosalind’ mayn’t have gone off pretty well, you intend to give up the stage altogether—at your time of life—with your prospects—my darling, tell me what you mean?" She went over and took her companion’s two hands in her own. "Why, mother, you tremble as if you expected some terrible misfortune to happen to us. You will make me as nervous as yourself if you don’t collect yourself. You have not been prepared for it as I have been. I have known for some time that I should not be able to act when I returned to London——" With a slight scream, she started up and caught her friend, who was tottering and like to fall in her arms. The old woman had been unable to receive this intelligence all at once. It was too appalling and too sudden; and when at last some intimation of it came home to her mind, she reeled under the shock. She uttered some incoherent words—"_my charge of you_," "_your mother_," "_the future_"—and then she sank quite insensible upon the sofa to which Annie Brunel had half-carried her. CHAPTER XXIII. HOME AGAIN. Count Schönstein was in love. His ponderous hilarity had quite gone out of him. After Miss Brunel’s departure, he moved about the house alone and disconsolate; he was querulous about his meals; he forgot to tell lies about the price of his wines. He ceased to joke about marriage; he became wonderfully polite to the people about him, and above all to Will Anerley; and every evening after dinner he was accustomed to sit and smoke silently in his chair, going over in his mind all the incidents of Annie Brunel’s visit, and hoping that nothing had occurred to offend her. Sometimes, in a fit of passionate longing, he wished he was again a tea-dealer and she the daughter of one of his clerks. He grew sick of his ambitious schemes; inwardly cursed the aristocracy of this and every other country; and prayed for some humble cottage, with Annie Brunel for his wife, and with nothing for himself to do but sit and smoke, and watch the grape-clusters over the verandah.