She knew that she was as capable of enjoying scenes like the function she had just left as any who were there; as fitted for them by education, by personal appearance, or by natural gifts of the mind, as the most welcome of the Duchess’s guests; yet she was barred out from them as effectually as was the lost Peri at the closed gate. Why had capricious fate selected two girls of probably equal merit, and made one a princess, while the other had to work hard night and day for the mere right to live? Nothing is so ineffectual as the little word “why”; it asks, but never answers. With a deep sigh Jennie dried her tears as the carriage pulled up at the portal of the hotel. The sigh dismissed all frivolities, all futile “whys”; the girl was now face to face with the realities of life, and the events she had so recently taken part in would soon blend themselves into a dream. Dismissing the carriage, and walking briskly through the hall, she said to the night porter,-- “Have a hansom at the door for me in fifteen minutes.” “A hansom, my lady?” gasped the astonished man. “Yes.” She slipped a sovereign into his hand and ran lightly up the stairs. The porter was well accustomed to the vagaries of great ladies, although a hansom at midnight was rather beyond his experience. But if all womankind tipped so generously, they might order an omnibus, and welcome; so the hansom was speedily at the door. Jennie roused the drowsy maid who was sitting up for her. “Come,” she said, “you must get everything packed at once. Lay out my ordinary dress and help me off with this.” “Where is your other glove, my lady?” asked the maid, busily unhooking, and untying. “Lost. Don’t trouble about it. When everything is packed, get some sleep, and leave word to be called in time for the eight o’clock express for Paris. Here is money to pay the bill and your fare. It is likely I shall join you at the station; but if I do not, go to our hotel in Paris and wait for me there. Say nothing of our destination to anyone, and answer no questions regarding me, should inquiries be made. Are you sure you understand?” “Yes, my lady.” A few moments later Jennie was in the cab, driving through the nearly deserted streets. She dismissed her vehicle at Charing Cross, walked down the Strand until she got another, then proceeded direct to the office of the _Daily Bugle_, whose upper windows formed a row of lights, all the more brilliant because of the intense darkness below. She found the shorthand writers waiting for her. The editor met her at the door of the room reserved for her, and said, with visible anxiety on his brow, “Well, what success?” “Complete success,” she answered shortly.