"Let us go home before she sees us. Do not let her find out that we are still living." Man-like, he smiled at her terror, and whispered back: "My darling, we have nothing to fear from Madame Lorraine's hatred now. Can you not trust to your husband to protect you?" "Yes--oh, yes," the girl-wife murmured; but the chill foreboding of evil did not leave her mind, and she shrunk back into the shadow of the heavy box-curtain, praying in her heart that Mme. Lorraine's hateful glance might not find her out. Perhaps it might not have done so, for, to madame's credit be it said, she did not ogle the boxes after the manner of some actresses. She was intent on her part, and, beyond the knowledge that she had a large and fashionable audience, she took no particular interest in the throng of people. But a perverse spirit had entered into Eliot Van Zandt, and seeing the woman so cool, calm, and heartless, he longed to let her know that her vengeance failed of its aim and her victims escaped her. He pictured to himself her jealous, impotent fury when she should know that both he and her Little Nobody lived, and that they were happily married and beyond the reach of her venom. And in that last belief he made his great mistake. He whispered his thoughts to Una. In truth, he was longing to take his exquisite vengeance on his enemy. Una forced a smile of meek acquiescence. She said to herself that she could not let her splendid young husband know what a little coward she was, and how she feared her old tyrant and enemy. At the close of the third act Eliot said, eagerly: "Will you let me have your bouquet, Una? To-morrow I will bring you a sweeter one." With secret reluctance she let him have it. He wrote hurriedly a few words on a card and attached it to the flowers. Una looked over his shoulder. She read: "Compliments of Eliot Van Zandt and his bride, the 'Little Nobody.'" "Oh!" the girl cried, with a shiver; but Eliot had already thrown it upon the stage at the feet of the tragedy queen, who was bowing and smiling in response to an enthusiastic recall. Among a dozen floral tributes she saw that pure, white, bride-like one flung from the opera-box. She took it up, lifted it to her lips, and bowed, then scanned the name written on the card, while Eliot watched her with a triumphant smile, Una with nameless fear. Eliot was quite curious to note what effect that startling card would have upon the wicked actress. It seemed to him that she would be stunned, that she would fall to the floor in abject terror, crying out for mercy from him she had wronged. Una, too, expected every instant that she would fall down unconscious, overcome by fear and anger. Neither one comprehended the stoicism, the incomparable will-power of the gifted, wicked French woman.