He lay quiescent upon the couch, as he had lain all day, after his illness of the morning, with his white hand before his eyes. There had been a most exciting interview between him and Mr. Dawn, and he was now temporarily utterly worn out and exhausted. The unhappy mother sat down by her son and ran her slender fingers caressingly through the soft clustering locks of his abundant hair. She saw his pale face writhe with a spasm of inward feeling, as he muttered through trembling lips: “Are they gone?” She answered, evasively: “Yes.” CHAPTER XX. LOVE AND LOSS. Meanwhile, Everard Dawn flung himself into a cab and hurried to the theater, his mind divided between thoughts of his daughter and the magnificent woman he had left behind him. Arrived at the theater, he purchased a ticket, and entered just as the last act was being performed; but without glancing at the stage, he threw a hurried, anxious glance around the glittering horseshoe in search of Cinthia’s face. To his surprise and unutterable relief, he presently beheld her fair face and shining hair half hidden behind the sweeping curtain in a private box, from which she watched the stage with kindling eyes of delight. Quickly he made his way to her side, and she glanced around at him with suddenly gloomy eyes of fear and dislike. Bending over her, he whispered, agitatedly: “Cinthia, do not look at me so coldly and angrily. I am your father.” “You do well to remind me of your claim,” she answered, bitterly, turning her glance back to the stage. The keen reproach cut deep, and for a moment he found no words for reply, only followed her eyes to the scene where Madame Ray, magnificently beautiful in white brocade and diamonds, was the center of an emotional scene. “What a fascinating woman! It is the star, of course?” he exclaimed. “Yes; it is Madame Ray. She is more than fascinating. She is an angel,” his daughter returned, warmly. “May I ask how long you have known the lady?” Cinthia looked around at him, and answered, perversely: “Long enough to love her better than any one else that I know.” “Is she so charming?” “Adorable!” “And Mrs. Varian?” anxiously. “I hate her!” Cinthia answered, frankly, with a flash of the eyes. “Because she parted you from Arthur?” he asked, anxiously. “Yes,” mutinously. “Ah, Cinthia, in that act she only showed you truest kindness.” “She hated my mother!” “And with good reason!” he replied, with a transient flash in his dark blue eyes. Cinthia looked suddenly curious. “I should like to hear all about it!” she exclaimed. “Ah, my child, it is too sad a story for your ears, that old feud. I pray Heaven you need never hear it all. We will go away to-morrow, and bury the dead past forever,” he answered, earnestly, while he wondered over and over how she had formed Madame Ray’s acquaintance, though he saw that in her present perverse mood she would disclose nothing.