Evelyn, whose conduct had been, and still was, most indiscreet, being, moreover, without a protector, was especially the mark for scandal. Women who would have given the world to have been able to do as she did, were the first to blame her imprudence; and the young Florentine exquisites, who had never yet succeeded in winning a smile from “_la bella Inglese_,” now invented all kinds of cruel and false reports concerning her. The frequent visits of the Count Syracuse were reported to the Grand Duchess, who henceforth looked coldly upon Evelyn, and the ladies of society were only too happy to have it in their power to mortify one who had excited their jealousy. And Melville, too—the good, the kind, the loving—had he also deserted the woman he once held so dear? The next chapter may perhaps throw some light on this subject. [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XI. +FIRST LOVE+ COLONEL REGINALD MELVILLE TO EVELYN TRAVERS. London, February 28th. BEFORE you receive this, Evelyn, I shall be far away; it may, perhaps, cost you one pang in the midst of your triumphs, to know that we are at last parted; it may be for years—it may be _forever_. My regiment is under immediate orders for India, and we sail in a week. We are required to quell the Sepoy rebellion, and to avenge the horrible brutalities perpetrated by those savages on our innocent countrywomen and their helpless babes. I will not, at this supreme moment, reproach you—your naturally good heart will teach you how far you have erred—but I will simply mention how deeply I felt your inconsiderate conduct at the last ball, when you knew that, in two days, one who loved you as his own soul must leave; and how still more bitterly was I disappointed at having been prevented by the prince’s presence from bidding you a last adieu. You are very beautiful and talented. It is natural you should command attention wherever you go. But, oh! Evelyn, does this satisfy your heart? Ask yourself, are you not sometimes unhappy, even amid the most brilliant scenes? Do not imagine that every fop who approaches you, is capable of sincere attachment, even to a creature as fascinating as yourself. You are, to the majority of men, but as the pastime of an idle hour—or worse, the coquette whose smiles flatter their selfish vanity, and of whose favors they boast at the public promenades or the _cafés_. But of this I cannot bear to speak—even the thought is madness.