"Ah! if only he knew the real truth! But I can see that he is deeply repentant, and I foresee a joyful reconciliation between him and his beautiful gifted wife," said Beatrix to herself, hopefully. In a little while Cyril Wentworth came in. It was but a distant greeting the two gentlemen gave each other. Cyril thought that Mr. Le Roy had treated his erring bride hardly and unjustly, and he could not be cordial to him, for pretty Laurel's sake--and on the other hand St. Leon remembered how jealous he had been of this handsome young man in the days before he learned the truth about his wife. The old dislike and resentment lingered with him unconsciously still. He took leave very soon after Cyril's entrance, promising to meet them later in the ball-room or the parlors. "Now, I am going to introduce you to Mrs. Lynn," said Beatrix to her husband. "You will escort her to the ball-room, and papa will take me." She led him to Laurel's apartment, and watched him closely as he bowed before the gifted authoress whose writings he admired so much. Cyril was almost dumb with surprise and admiration. It was some time before he recovered himself sufficiently to offer her his arm to conduct her to the ball-room. "Well, Cyril, what do you think of her?" Beatrix asked him eagerly, as soon as she found a chance to hang upon his arm apart from the rest. He looked fondly down into the fair face. "You must not be jealous of my opinion, my darling," he said. "Of course you are the sweetest, fairest woman on earth to me. But Mrs. Lynn is the most beautiful as well as the most gifted one I ever met." It was eloquent praise, but somehow Beatrix looked disappointed. He read it plainly on the fair mobile face. "Is there anything more that I ought to say about your favorite?" he inquired, laughingly. "Have you, indeed, no more to say about her?" she returned wistfully. "Yes, there is something else--only I am afraid you will laugh at the fancy, dear," said Cyril Wentworth, with a masculine dread of ridicule. "No, I will not laugh at you. Tell me," said Beatrix, anxiously. "I am not at all sure you will not laugh," he said, "but I will tell you the truth. Although I have never seen any one quite so lovely as your Mrs. Lynn, yet she recalls to my mind some one else whom I have met--indeed Beatrix, the resemblance is simply marvelous," he exclaimed, glancing across to where the lovely authoress stood conversing with Mr. Gordon. "Whom does she resemble?" Beatrix inquired with her heart on her lips. "I am sure you will see the likeness as soon as I mention it," he said. "Look closely at Mrs. Lynn, Beatrix--at her rare type of beauty, her dark eyes, her golden hair, her blonde coloring, her delicately chiseled features, her sweet, sad lips. She is like one long dead. She is like Laurel Vane." A sigh of relief came from her lips. "I was sure you could not fail to see the resemblance," she said. "So you had already noted it?" he said.