He stepped across the threshold and was alone with Rosalind. The slighted beauty lay gracefully posing among the silken pillows of an Oriental couch. She wore a negligee robe of soft white lansdowne, embroidered in blue flowers that matched the striking hue of her beautiful eyes. The golden lengths of her thick hair flowed unconfined over her shoulders, and her face, even to her lips, wore a bluish pallor of illness and suffering. At Charley’s entrance a melancholy smile curved her lips, and she extended her white hand, glittering with diamonds, murmuring: “Dear Charley, I was really too ill to receive you. See to what a plight your falsity has brought me. But I hoped against hope you had relented, and wished everything to be as before, so I sent for you. Ah, tell me, dear, is it true?” Charley’s heart quickly sank like a stone in his breast, for he saw that his presentiment was right; hysterics were impending, sure enough! He felt like swearing, but he controlled the impulse and stood gazing at her, speechlessly, while she raved on: “Oh, Charley, dearest, I’ve thought it all over until my brain is almost wild, and I’ve decided that I cannot, will not give you up to my rival! I have the first, best claim, and I will yield it to no other. Ah, say that you will love me still, that you will be true to your vows!” “Here is a pretty pickle!” groaned the young man to himself, in a sort of consternation at the situation, his generous heart touched by her display of emotion, for her beauty and her sorrow were very striking, almost theatrical. But he pulled himself together, and said gently, with an abashed air in his self-reproach: “Don’t say another word, please, Rosalind; you are only making matters worse. It is too late!” “Too late!” she almost shrieked, and he answered seriously: “Yes, forever, too late. I’ve proposed to the other girl, and have been accepted.” A cry of rage burst from Rosalind’s lips, and her blue eyes blazed with the fire of jealous hate. She sat erect suddenly and shook her small, jeweled fist close to his face. “Coward! Traitor! You have turned my love to hate, and you shall pay dear for the slight you have put upon me!” “Do you threaten me with a suit for breach of promise?” he demanded laughingly. “Worse than that, far worse!” she answered fiercely, adding: “I know who my secret rival is already--that miserable little actress that used to be Berry Vining, and I will have my revenge on you both! Now go!” Charley obeyed her with alacrity! CHAPTER XXIV. THE NEXT DAY. Miss Montague’s headache lasted till the afternoon of the next day, and she denied herself to every one but her maid, keeping quiet, as she said, to overcome the attack, but in reality plotting schemes for revenge on her successful rival. Her seclusion ended, she appeared at luncheon, exquisitely gowned, and with a becoming pallor that witnessed her recent sufferings.