"What is it 'Ruy Blas' says so admirably, '_un ver de terre, amoureux d'une étoile_,' the star shines on it, though it cannot abase itself, and sends its light to guide the poor worm of the earth to its home in a dark sod, where it may pine and die, rejected, despised, unloved, because it has been created only for that fate of grovelling insignificance!" Neither heard the almost sob behind them; he was turned towards Lady Dora, and in the crowd stood the "Brown Domino," who had crept back unnoticed, to hear these last words. "I have been a sceptic in love," she almost whispered. "_Have_ been; are you not now? I should fancy so." She was perfectly silent. "If you have _present_ faith, on what is it grounded?" "Perhaps on the dream of an hour!" she ejaculated, scarcely above her breath. "Then watch its waking, and if it survive the glare of day, cherish it; if not in all freshness, banish it--'tis a temptation, not a rock to build upon. May I call to-morrow, and see if it be in existence? or passed, leaving no sweet savour behind of truth and futurity of joy? Here is Lady Lysson seeking you--may I call to-morrow?" "Yes, but--but, come in forgetfulness of this night. I surely am spellbound. This is a part of some witchcraft in this giddy scene. Remember, and forget this--and--me--other than this, were vain madness!" "I will only remember what I read then in your eyes; let _them_ answer me--_not_ your lip; words are false, tears are recorded untruths, the eyes are scholars of the soul. They shall learn all its truth, and impart it to me in a glance. I will call to-morrow. And to-morrow," thought he, "I shall start for Marseilles; I _must_ go there and know all!" "I thought we should find you in this corridor!" exclaimed Lord Randolph, without an idea of jealous fear. "Hollo! what is this bustle about? Oh! only a lady has fainted. I don't wonder--'tis deucedly warm!" Some gentlemen were carrying a lady in a brown domino towards a private box. She was apparently lifeless in their arms. Unheeding, the party turned away laughing, and mounted the staircase to seek their box, and the remainder of their friends. CHAPTER XV. It would be a task of pain and sorrow to tell all the bitterness of a woman's life, thrown friendless, delicate, and poor, in any land, but especially a stranger one, for one who had been nurtured so gently. Surely--surely, the wind is ever tempered to the shorn lamb!