“What a stately beauty she is,” he thought, and suddenly remembered all that Molly had told him of her step-sister’s strange beauty. “She _is_ handsome; but her eyes with their strange yellow gleams make one think of a tigress,” he mused, and then he asked himself, soberly: “If this one had come to Ferndale instead of that misguided girl could I have loved her as I loved that little enchantress?” It almost seemed to him like a wrong to that handsome, high-born beauty when his heart impetuously answered no. There came to him a memory of what his brother had said yesterday: “What is there in a name that you should hate her so? She is the same girl you loved and married, call her by what name you will.” CHAPTER XXXIV. Miss Barry’s voice recalled him to the present. She was persuading his mother to share their opera-box that night. “I should not like to leave Cecil. He will like for me to be at home with him perhaps,” Mrs. Laurens replied. “Oh, he will come, too--will you not, Mr. Laurens?” turning the radiant eyes persuasively on his face. “Do, Cecil, you will enjoy the music,” said his mother. “And I want you to come, Cecil, very much,” added old Mrs. Barry. “Very well, I will,” he replied, carelessly, thinking that it mattered little where he went since the door of love and happiness was shut upon him forever by his wife’s treachery. Doctor Charley came in presently and found them all discussing the opera with great animation. He was disgusted when he heard that Cecil was going and refused Louise’s invitation to himself point-blank. “I am obliged to return to Paris tonight,” he said, curtly, “and if I were not I am too tired. Besides, I should not think it in good taste to go.” Cecil colored and looked at him keenly. “Why not?” he asked, brusquely, and Doctor Charley answered, reproachfully: “I should not forget as you and my mother seem to do, that your young wife is ill and lonely. I should stay here if I had time and amuse the unhappy little creature.” Cecil’s eyes flashed angrily, and Mrs. Laurens tossed her head in displeasure. “She is well enough, only sulky,” she exclaimed. Miss Barry laughed, easily. “Ah, I see that you understand Molly thoroughly,” she said. “Her sulky fits used to be the bane of her mother as long as she lived, and of Aunt Lucy and myself after my step-mother’s death. She will do worse if you notice them, but if left to herself will become sensible after awhile.” Doctor Charley gave her a keen look of displeasure which she pretended not to observe. “I do not like you, Miss Cat-eyes,” he said to himself. “For all poor Molly’s treachery she is more lovable than you, and perhaps you have made the case worse than it really is. Some day when Molly gets well she shall tell me the whole story, but not now, for it would agitate her too much and that would be dangerous in her condition.”