"Fortune favors me. You know I am invited to a little _petit souper_ to-night after the theater. It is at the house of one of the Boston _bon ton_, and the name on the card is 'Mrs. Bryant Van Zandt.'" Even the imperturbable Mima started with surprise. "Well?" Madame laughed, and the laugh was not good to hear. "I have no doubt they are relatives of my Yankee friend," she said. "Perhaps, even they live in the same house. I shall be sure to go, and then--_che sarâ, sarâ_!" Her voice had a fiendish threat in its angry cadence. She went back on the stage, smiling, insolent. She looked once or twice into the box from whence the white flowers had been thrown to her, and smiled whenever she looked. And Una's blood ran cold whenever she met that smile. She instinctively felt that it was one of menace. She was very, very glad when it was all over, and she could nestle by Eliot's side in the carriage with her cold little hand in his. Maud and Edith rode with them, but they did not utter one word to even hint to them that Mme. Leonie, the actress, was Mme. Lorraine, the wicked woman who had been so cruel to them in New Orleans. Both said to themselves that it did not matter now. Let her enjoy her fame, if she could, since out of her cruel plans had come their wedded happiness. She would leave Boston to-morrow for Philadelphia, where she was to play next, and in all likelihood her path would never cross theirs again. So, dismissing the wicked woman from their minds, Eliot and Una waited with the girls in the drawing-room for the coming of the rest of the party who were a little late. At last there was a bustle, a murmur of voices and laughter in the hall--then entered Sylvie, Ida, and their guests--lastly Bryant Van Zandt, on his arm--Mme. Leonie! "Ah, girls! ah, Eliot!" Sylvie cried out, in pretty triumph. "See what a charming surprise I have brought you. Madame Leonie will honor us by taking supper under our roof." Not a tremor on the part of the actress betrayed the fact that she had ever seen before the two to whom she bowed with stately grace. For them, they were too amazed by her matchless impudence to even remind her of the past, and bowed coldly in acknowledgment of the introduction. Turning away with Sylvie, they heard her say, in clear, full tones: "Ah, Madame Van Zandt, what an aristocratic-looking young beauty is Mrs. Eliot Van Zandt! She is no doubt of one of the finest old families of Boston." Sylvie's cruel voice answered maliciously: "On the contrary, a little nobody that Eliot picked up somewhere on a Southern tour." The eyes of the young husband and wife met, his indignant, hers wet with tears. "After all, it is true, I am a little nobody," she said, faintly. "Oh, Eliot," with sudden animation, "what if we should force Madame Lorraine to tell us the truth to-night--to own frankly who and what I am?" "You are Una Marie Van Zandt, and my wife. The past need not matter, my darling," he replied, tenderly.