“You shall not call yourself old,” she cried, caressing him in her pretty, tender fashion. “How do you like my Worth dress?” she continued, gayly. “It is adorable!” he replied; but he was looking at her face, not the dainty creation of blue and white. “Adorable is not exactly the term to apply to a dress, but I will excuse you, as I know it is becoming, and perhaps that makes me adorable.” Thea laughed saucily; then she pushed her white hand through his arm and drew him to the door. “Let us go down to the drawing-room,” she said. “I am anxious to meet that sweet lady again. I have fallen in love with her at sight.” “She is very charming, certainly,” he agreed. Then he laughed. “But I suppose I must not fall in love with her, too, or my little wife will be jealous.” “Jealous of sweet Lady Edith--no, never!” the girl cried, impulsively, her young heart thrilling with affection for the sweet, pensive-faced woman who but a few hours before had been a stranger to her save in name. But to Thea it almost seemed as if she had known Lady Edith years and years. CHAPTER LI. “I am tired, Norman, and my head aches. I will not go to the opera to-night,” Thea said, languidly, laying her flushed face down on her husband’s shoulder. Three weeks had passed since their coming to London, and Thea had tasted all the sweetness and triumph of a triumphal entrance upon society, which had crowned her in her first week with the laurels of belleship. Her husband’s name was already known in London through his popular books, and the brilliant social world immediately made a pet of his lovely girl-bride. Her sparkling beauty, her naïveté, her frank enjoyment of everything created a decided sensation, and Lady Edith’s daily mail was crowded with invitations for herself and guests. “I have not gone so much in society for years,” she said, in her sweet, gentle fashion. “But it is a pleasure to chaperon you, my dear, you enjoy it so much, and I receive so many compliments on introducing you.” Then she sighed. “Ah, Thea, I might have been chaperoning a daughter of my own now if she had lived.” “You had a daughter?” Thea cried, in surprise. “Yes, a little angel. But she died when she was four years old. Oh, Thea, I can not talk to you of her; it is too painful,” the beautiful woman cried, bursting into tears. Thea’s heart thrilled with passionate pity and tenderness. She put her arms about the drooping figure, and kissed the tear-wet face, whispering of her love and sympathy, until at last Lady Edith ceased her sobbing and murmured: “If she had lived, she would have been like you, darling Thea. She had the same blue eyes and curling golden hair. I hope you will come to us some time in Devonshire, and I will show you her portrait.” That night Thea told her husband of Lady Edith’s sorrow.