Queenie was left alone standing on the wet pavement in the wintery night, locked out of her husband's house like a thief, a waif and a stray by night, while over her loomed the great brown-stone palace that a few months ago had been splendidly refitted and furnished in velvets, tapestries, gildings and bronzes, for her pleasure. It was hers--her husband's--therefore her own. Yet she turned away from its inhospitable doors, homeless, friendless, penniless--worse than all, _hopeless_! "Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood with amazement Houseless by night." CHAPTER XXI. It is some time since we have seen Mrs. Lyle and her elder daughter. We must seek them now in one of "the stately homes of England." They are the guests of Lady Valentine at her elegant residence in the most fashionable quarter of London. Nearly four years have elapsed since we first met the Lyles and heard the spirited discussion over little Queenie's first ball and Sydney's old green silk dress. Sydney and Georgina would not need to scrimp little Queenie's share of finery to bedeck themselves now were she living. Georgina's husband is wealthy and indulgent, and "Uncle Robert," the beneficent friend of their earlier days, has charged himself with Sydney's support ever since her father died until recently, when she has married a wealthy man. Mrs. Lyle lives with Georgina, and still enjoys the whirl of fashionable life as much as ever--indeed more than ever, for now there is no vexing question relative to the girls' finery disturbing her placid mind. It is a chilly morning in mid-winter, and the three ladies are sitting in a pleasant morning-room, Georgina, grown plump and indolent, idly reclining in an easy-chair, with her dimpled white hands lazily folded over her silken lap, Mrs. Lyle perusing a morning paper, and Sydney gazing restlessly out of the window--watching, perhaps, for her husband--the honeymoon is not a month old yet, and she is naturally impatient at his absence. Into this quiet scene enters Lord Valentine and tosses some cards into his wife's lap. "Tickets for La Reine Blanche to-night," he says. All three ladies utter a cry of delight. "At last," exclaims Mrs. Lyle, in a spasm of anticipation. "Yes, at last," laughs my Lord Valentine. "The great American actress will play at the theater to-night, and we shall have a chance to see if she is really as great an _artiste_ as Madame Rumor reports." "Here is a paragraph regarding her now," says Mrs. Lyle, and taking up the paper, she reads aloud: