"It only tells me about some fancy work she undertook for me," continued Dick, drawing back her hand with the note, "and thanks me rather over much for my 'unvarying kindness.' She might stow that," she concluded, with a grimace. But Mr. Tremain had eyes and thoughts only for the little note, and its dainty, aristocratic heraldry. "Is she a titled _émigrée_ in disguise?" he asked, pointing to the monogram and coronet; then, with an effort, as he became aware of Miss Darling's surprised looks, and speaking more lightly: "This grows exciting, Miss Dick; who knows?--we may have the elements of a three volume novel ready to our hands, yet lose them all by blundering. What do you know about Mdlle. Lamien?" "Only what Esther has told us all, which you heard, I think. As to her being titled, if you think this indicates it," pointing to the embellishments on the pink note, "why you know, they go for nothing. It may be only a blind, or it may be that Mdlle. Lamien prefers to write on other people's note-paper. I don't think it's very conclusive evidence one way or the other." And Miss Darling got up with almost an impatient air. "I am going to change my seat," she said, "I want to go further back, where I can better see and admire Miss Hildreth. But before I go, Mr. Tremain, I will tell you who sent Esther the roses, it was Mdlle. Lamien; a sentimental and too extravagant outburst of gush on her part, wasn't it?" Too surprised to reply, Mr. Tremain made way for Miss Darling, escorting her to a back row, where George Newbold received her with _empressement_, and Jack Howard with unqualified relief. "Give you my word," he whispered in her ear, "I have been bored to death, Miss Dick; so glad to have you back again!" But Miss Darling proved very poor company, and Jack Howard for once voted her tiresome. "Stupid blind mole!" declared Dick to herself, as Philip made his bow and left her. "Can't he see how lovely Patricia has grown, that he must run after that pale Russian woman? Oh, what idiots men are!" and Miss Darling consoled herself by reducing poor Jack to the verge of despair by her sharp retorts and acrid replies. Quite late in the evening, after the rehearsal was over, and the little theatre empty, Count Vladimir opened the double doors and stepped within Melpomene's deserted temple. The lights had not yet been put out, and the stage scenery stood unchanged from the last act; an air of late occupancy, and a memory of brilliant accessories, of fair women in their sheen of jewels and gleam of satins still lingered, to which the empty seats and deserted stage pointed the moral of all transitory glory. Vladimir stood for a moment contemplating the scene, a fine smile curving his lips, the light of recent conquest lingering in his eyes. "I am too late," he murmured; "the drama is played out seemingly, the actors fled. Ah, well, I can afford to wait."