‘Aurelia, pretty one, brightest of blues!’ As a wife and a lady of title the same lady doubled her social charms. Her husband, standing quietly in her shadow, watched her with morose adoration, whilst she dispensed hospitality to all the lions of the land. For Aurelia loved a lion, just as some people love a lord. On each occasion there were new ones to be sought out, secured and made much of, before the party could be complete. In difficulties of this sort she generally appealed to her old friend and admirer Serena, who, being full-manned and leonine himself, was a good judge of the noble animal in demand. Serena, we may remark _en passant_, had painted the Countess in every attitude and from every conceivable point of view; as a Pythoness, as a ‘Psyche by the Waters of Love’s Wanness,’ as ‘A Study in Rose Pink,’ as ‘Vivien the Enchantress,’ in which doleful composition the painter himself appeared as Merlin; and most of these portraits adorned the walls of the cerulean house at Barnes, on the banks of the Thames. One morning, early in the season, Madeline, sitting at breakfast with her husband, received the Countess’s invitation; accompanying it was a little note from Serena. ‘I hope you will come; indeed, you must come,’ wrote the great man, ‘since on this occasion the fair Aurelia’s rooms will be graced by the presence of a gentleman whom I wish particularly to make known to you, a charming creature whose soul is redolent of music and divine song. He comes to my rooms, he contemplates your picture by the hour--he vows that so divine a creature cannot exist. I wish to show him that she does exist, and that, in trying to place it upon canvas, my poor hand has signally failed.’ Madeline read the letter with a smile, then she handed it to her husband. ‘The Countess is not content with mere lions this year,’ she said. ‘She evidently intends to make a lioness of _me_. Shall we go?’ ‘Yes, we had better go, my dear,’ returned Forster quietly. ‘Beneath all her humbug the Countess is an excellent person; she would be really pained if we stayed away.’ So without more ado--without more thought--the step was taken which was to become the great turning point in Madeline’s life. Breakfast over, Forster went to the City, while Madeline wrote a little note accepting the lady’s invitation; then put the whole matter from her mind, ordered her carriage, and an hour later was driving down Regent Street, with the little boy who was now her constant companion. The life into which Madeline had entered on her marriage had proved so far to be a happy one. James Forster, always kind and considerate, was devoted to his young wife; while Madeline tried to repay some of his kindness to her by lavishing her affection on his child. ‘He shall never repent marrying me,’ she said to herself a hundred times a day. ‘He alone knows I did not bring him honour, but I will bring him happiness.’ And she tried to keep her word.