"The beautiful and gifted young American actress, Madame Reine De Lisle, will make her _debut_ before a London audience to-night in the great emotional play of 'Romeo and Juliet.' The fame of this wonderful _artiste_ has preceded her to England, and all lovers of the drama are on the _qui vive_ for the first appearance of La Reine Blanche, as her admirers call her." "La Reine Blanche," said Lord Valentine's little sister, looking up from her volume of history as she sat in a corner by the fire. "La Reine Blanche--that means 'the white queen.' They used to call Mary Queen of Scots La Reine Blanche, because she was so fair and lovely, and because she wore a white dress when she was in mourning. I have just been reading about her in my history. I wonder if this great actress is beautiful also?" "She is said to be the most beautiful blonde in the world, Alice," said Lord Valentine, smiling down at the little school-girl. A slight cloud has shadowed the brightness of Lady Valentine's face while little Lady Alice is speaking. She leans toward her mother, and says in a slightly lowered voice, but one which is distinctly audible to Sydney: "Alice's French recalls my own, mamma. Have you ever thought what the name of this great tragedy _queen_, if rendered into English, would be?" "_Reine De Lisle_," repeated Mrs. Lyle, musingly. Then she gives a great start. "It would be--ah, it would be Queen Lyle!" "Exactly," says Georgina. "Quite an odd coincidence. Is it not?" She leans back in her seat with a thoughtful look on her pretty pink and white face. Old times and old interests crowd into her mind with the memory of her younger sister. Time has thrown a veil over Queenie's faults and follies, and Georgina recalls her now with a softening remembrance, and half regrets the scorn she cast upon her when she returned to them so strangely. "But ah! that missing year," she asks herself, as she has done many times before. "Where was it spent?" Sydney had risen at the first mention of Queenie's name and swept out of the room. Neither time nor change had softened her hatred and resentment against poor little Queenie. She had hated her beautiful sister while living, and she hated her, even in her grave, so bitterly that she could not endure the mention of her name even now when years had come and gone. CHAPTER XXII. "Let us go home, mother, I am tired already. The play is sickening; I always thought so." It is Sydney who speaks, and her voice is full of restless discontent. She is in a box at the theater, looking brilliantly beautiful in black velvet and diamonds. The place is packed from pit to dome; but in the dazzling rows of fair faces, there is not one handsomer than hers, even now when it is marred by that look of impatience, almost anger, that rests upon it like a threatening cloud upon a summer sky. Mrs. Lyle, a passionate lover of the drama, turns a look of dismay upon her handsome daughter.