“My sister has fallen in love with my description of you, Mrs. de Vere, and as she already knows your gifted husband through his clever books, she is most anxious to meet you both, and prides herself on the opportunity of presenting in society this year an author and a beauty. You will not have the heart to disappoint her, I know, so promise us that you will come by the middle of May,” he wrote; and Thea looked questioningly at her husband. “Shall we go?” “I thought, my darling, that you had already promised Lord Stuart?” “So I did--but”--with a swift, passionate glance under the long fringe of her thick lashes--“we have been so happy alone together. Will it be so when we go to London? Will society be as pleasant as this?” She glanced about her at their pretty private parlor, where they had spent so many happy evenings together, “the world forgetting, by the world forgot,” then she flung her white arms about his neck and gave him an impulsive kiss. Norman caught her to his breast in a passionate embrace. “Oh, my little love, how happy you make me!” he whispered in the deep tones of strong emotion; and for a little while Lord Stuart’s letter was quite forgotten in the love-making that ensued. When the subject came up again, they decided to accept the invitation. “I dare say you will enjoy it very much. Beautiful young women always do,” Norman said, smiling. “You will have a chance to air your new Paris dresses that have never been worn yet; and, _chère petite_, you will need a maid.” “Oh, dear, no; that will be quite unnecessary,” she protested; but her husband gently but firmly overruled the objections she had always raised to a maid. “We will set about securing one at once,” he said; and Thea gave way gracefully. Of course he knew best. A clever, elderly woman was secured, English instead of French, for Norman had always detested French maids since the days of Finette Du Val. With something like a sigh for the past happy days, Thea turned her face to the future, and in a few more days found herself clinging bashfully to her husband’s arm and receiving the cordial greetings of Lord Stuart and his widowed sister in their beautiful home. She had looked forward with eager interest to the meeting with Lord Stuart’s sister, who had been romantic enough to mourn her dead husband for eighteen years. To the young bride who loved her husband with passionate devotion such constancy appeared most charming. She was quite sure that she should do the same if she were to lose her dear Norman, if indeed she did not die outright of grief. Poor Thea, poor, happy, loving child! it seemed to her so easy to die if bereft of that which made life worth living. She did not realize the bitter contrasts of life: “We pray for death, But death comes not at will.”