"I can quite believe that. I have been here two--three hours, perhaps, and I know already why your friends would be only too happy to come. You make them a home from the moment they enter your door." "You could not say anything more pleasing to my vanity, Marquise," said her hostess, laughingly, and then checked herself at sight of an upraised finger. "Oh, I forgot--I do persist in the Marquise." "Come, let us compromise," suggested her guest, "if Madame Caron sounds too new and strange in your ears, I have another name, Judithe; it may be more easily remembered." "In Europe and England," she continued, "where there are so many royal paupers, titles do not always mean what they are supposed to. I have seen a Russian prince who was a hostler, an English lord who was an attendant in a gambling house, and an Italian count porter on a railway. Over here, where titles are rare, they make one conspicuous; I perceived that in New Orleans. I have no desire to be especially conspicuous. I only want to enjoy myself." "You can't help people noticing you a great deal, with or without a title," and Mrs. McVeigh smiled at her understandingly. "You cannot hope to escape being distinguished, but you shall be whatever you like at the Terrace." They walked arm in arm the length of the veranda, chatting lightly of Parisian days and people until ten o'clock sounded from the tall clock in the library. Mrs. McVeigh counted the strokes and exclaimed at the lateness. "I certainly am a poor enough hostess to weary you the first evening with chatter instead of sending you to rest, after such a drive," she said, in self accusation. "But you are such a temptation--Judithe." They both laughed at her slight hesitation over the first attempt at the name. "Never mind; you will get used to it in time," promised the Marquise, "I am glad you call me 'Judithe.'" Then they said good night; she acknowledged she did feel sleepy--a little--though she had forgotten it until the clock struck. Mrs. McVeigh left her at the door and went on down the hall to her own apartment--a little regretful lest Judithe should be over wearied by the journey and the evening's gossip. But she really looked a very alert, wide-awake young lady as she divested herself of the dark green travelling dress and slipped into the luxurious lounging robe Mademoiselle Louise held ready. Her brows were bent in a frown of perplexity very different from the gay smile with which she had parted from her hostess. She glanced at her attendant and read there anxiety, even distress. "Courage, Louise," she said, cheerily; "all is not lost that's in danger. Horrors! What a long face! Look at yourself in the mirror. I have not seen such a mournful countenance since the taking of New Orleans."