“My lord,” she began, with a cringing movement of her supple frame, “my mistress is sick. She sees no one, but”--with a courtesy to Lady Edith--“she will see you in her boudoir a few moments if the lady will excuse her.” Lady Edith rose quickly, but Finette made her a gesture to sit down again. “My lady, it is not you she consents to receive, it is Lord Stuart,” she said, flippantly; and Lady Edith sunk back in her chair with a low cry of wounded pride. Lord Stuart went to her, and with a rare impulse of tenderness kissed the lovely, disappointed face. “There is some mistake,” he whispered, soothingly. “It will be explained, I am sure, as soon as I see Thea. Will you wait here for me a little while?” “Yes,” she replied; but as soon as she was left alone she burst into the bitterest sobs. Her loving nature was cruelly wounded by this cold and strange reception, after all her affectionate anticipations of the joyful welcome she would have from Thea. Meanwhile, Lord Stuart was following Finette to the boudoir, thinking how unseemly it appeared that the first wife’s maid should be here in attendance on Thea. “I should not like it myself,” he thought; and just then Finette flung open the boudoir door. He entered, and found himself in an exquisite apartment, whose prevailing color was a rich azure. The rich hue and fragrance of flowers greeted him on every side, but the apartment was untenanted, and Finette said, apologetically: “My mistress will be with you in a few moments.” Then she disappeared into an inner room, and he waited most impatiently for Thea to enter, wondering why she had declined to see his sister with himself. “It is perplexing--nay, more, it is positively discourteous to treat Edith like this, after the devotion with which my sister nursed her through her long illness in London,” he thought, with rising indignation that grew stronger every moment he waited, for Camille was tardy. Her maid had to make some changes in her toilet before Camille would consent to enter the presence of her old lover. But at last the rich silken négligée was adjusted to her fancy, and with a throbbing heart and nervous step Camille entered and bowed to her guest. CHAPTER LXV. Lord Stuart grasped the back of a chair to steady himself, and stared aghast. “My lord, I am very happy to meet you. You see I have come back to my own,” said Camille, with her old dazzling smile and radiant glance that he so well remembered. She had advanced to the center of the beautiful apartment, and was holding out her white, ringed hand to him, but he did not appear to notice it. He only gasped as if she had thrown ice-water over him. “Are you ill, my lord?” she continued, in her most gracious manner. “Pray be seated. I will ring for wine.” But he put up his hand with a gesture of dissent, and his pale lips gasped a feeble negative. Camille’s smile began to fade.