“Strangemore has acted like a fool, dangling after that little coquette, while this beautiful creature was waiting for him at home!” “We are all here now except Mr. Strangemore and Sibyl,” said Miss Mason. “Does any one know if Mrs. St. Alban is down yet?” No one seemed to know, and Nina crossed the room to the conservatory, obeying an idle fancy for a rosebud. She stepped under the broad arch that led into it, and disappeared from view for a moment--only a moment, for then she came hurrying back with a handful of pink geraniums, snatched at random. Her face was as white as her dress, her dark eyes blazed with indignation. She looked at pretty Miss Mason, and said, in a trembling, incoherent voice: “I--I think your friend is in there. I saw a lady with my husband.” And the beautiful young face, all untutored in the art of hiding the emotions of the heart, betrayed its bitter, burning jealousy to all. “He is giving her some flowers--we must have some, too!” both the ladies cried, and they rushed to the door of the conservatory. Far down the flowery vista of sweetness, they saw Talbot Strangemore standing motionless, while Sibyl St. Alban leaned her fair head on his breast, weeping bitterly. They turned back quickly as Nina had done, but they could not meet the dark eyes of the girl. They tried to talk of other things. But that terrible Miss Drusilla watching them closely, said to herself grimly and with not very choice phraseology, that she “smelt a rat in the pantry,” and she immediately arose and plunged into the odorous green shadows of the conservatory. She did not start and turn back as the others did. She walked straight on toward the beautiful siren who was laying her head on Talbot’s breast and sobbing, with bitter reproach and anger: “You cannot mean it, Talbot, you would not be so cruel to your poor Sibyl!” Miss Drusilla walked straight up to them, and Talbot lifted his head with a frightened start. “Talbot,” said the grim spinster, “I hope your pretty young friend hasn’t heard any bad news that some of her friends are dead. She is certainly taking on as if she had! I expect some of her lady friends could comfort her better than you could!” Sibyl St. Alban, the charming young widow, lifted her head from its resting place and flashed a steady glance into Miss Drusilla’s scornful eyes. From that moment the two women knew themselves as enemies. “I expect Aunt Drusilla is right, Sibyl. Let us return to our friends,” Mr. Strangemore said in a short tone of displeasure, and he led her into the parlor, hoping devoutly that no one would observe the pink rims around her eyes which had shed such angry tears. Too much annoyed himself to notice the _distrait_ looks of the others, Talbot led his fair enchantress across the room to where his unloved wife was sitting, Cameron hovering attentively by her side.