Mrs. Lambert’s face was white as snow; her lips grew cold, and her voice failed. “Confess, or confide. I am willing to use the softer term,” answered Ross, touched, in spite of himself, by those contracted features. “But I have nothing to confess, or confide—nothing!” Ross turned away, bitterly disappointed. Something he had evidently hoped to learn from the lady, which she either did not understand, or purposely avoided. “I ask you a question, vital to us both, and you refuse to answer,” said the lady, still clasping her hands, where the jewels shone, and cut into the tender flesh unnoticed, in her agony of impatience. “First,” said Ross, sternly, “I will ask you a question.” “Then, you will answer mine? Ask it! Ask it!” cried the lady. Ross gave a glance around, as if fearing that they were not quite alone, then he took the woman’s two hands in his, drew her, not unwillingly, toward him, and whispered a few words. She uttered a low cry, wrung her hands from his clasp, and stood mute and pale, gazing on him with a wild gleam in her eyes, that shone like madness. “Are you mad, or am I?” she exclaimed at last, pressing both trembling hands on her bosom. “The time of madness for me has long since passed,” said Ross; “but you have not answered my question.” “Answered your question! No, then! No, no! A thousand times no! I—I——” Here the lady fell to trembling violently; for there was a look of-unbelief in the man’s face, that struck her to the heart, and he turned to leave her in silence. Then the old idea shot through her brain, and she approached him closer. “I have answered you. Now answer me. Do you love this girl, Eva Laurence!” “Yes!” Ross spoke in a low distinct voice, which scarcely rose above the fall of water-drops in the fountain; but it seemed to fill the whole conservatory. The flowers, the water, and the moon-like lamps, had heard it with herself, and seemed to rejoice over it—triumph over her. The last hope went out from her heart then, and she believed herself to be dying. CHAPTER XLI. IVON AND EVA. A handsomer couple than Ivon Lambert and Eva Laurence never measured perfect happiness to music. Tall, graceful, thrilled with a glow of unspoken love, they fairly floated through the ball-room, which was soon crowded with a circle of curious admirers. The beauty of this unknown girl had created a wide sensation among Mr. Carter’s guests—a sensation intensified by the hints and jeers flung out by Miss Spicer, who felt herself relieved of a rival, and, next to conquest, loved that species of piquant gossip that approaches a scandal. That young lady had been busy as a humming-bird, in a wild trumpet vine, circulating all that she knew of Eva Laurence—her origin, her occupation, and her engagement to the greatest genius just then in fashion.