She wondered if she had not sent her that paper—if, having seen their names and address registered at the American Legation, she had not, from a spirit of cruel triumph, sent it to wound and humiliate her. Yes, she was sure it must be so. But she should never know how fully her vile purpose had been accomplished. She would hide her anguish deep within her own heart. Wherever she went she would appear with a bright face and smiling lips, and no one should dream that her heart lay like a withered thing in her bosom. Mr. Rosevelt came in to see her several times during the day, and she always smiled and told him she was resting so as to be fresh for the evening. Mrs. Blunt tried to make her give up the reception, but she would not, protesting that she was as well as ever, although she could not hide her misery quite so effectually from that good woman’s sharp eyes. “Something has happened to upset her and break her heart again, or I’m much mistaken,” she muttered, uneasily, while, according to Star’s direction, she laid out her elegant dress for the evening. She had learned to read that fair young face too plainly not to feel sure that something very unusual had occurred to prostrate her so. Nine o’clock came, and Star Gladstone, a vision of bewildering beauty, entered the drawing-room of the United States Minister’s elegant residence, leaning on the arm of her distinguished-looking attendant. There was a buzz of admiration as she crossed the threshold, as there always was wherever she appeared, for it was not often that even that place was graced by the presence of one so wondrously gifted with beauty. She wore a dress of pale ecru silk, rich and heavy, and made perfectly plain save for the deep flounce of costly lace which reached almost to her knees, and the delicate vine or fringe of drooping ferns that headed it. Her fair, beautifully formed arms and neck, which were concealed only by the same rare lace, were clasped by unique ornaments of dull gold, and these, together with the cluster of fine ferns upon her bosom, fastened there with a miniature, diamond-studded bouquet-holder, comprised her only ornaments. But her face, so pure and peerless, looking out beneath that golden crown of hair, though a little paler than usual from her recent pain, was the loveliest object in that vast room. “American ladies are noted for their beauty, I believe; but though I have met many, I have never yet seen a more exquisite face and form than that,” said one gentleman to another, who stood leaning against the frame of the door through which Star and Mr. Rosevelt had passed but a moment before. “You are right; but Gladstone, which is the young lady’s name, sounds more English than American,” returned the gentleman addressed.