She had been fortunate in securing a beautiful place, whose owner, an Italian prince, was going on an American tour. He would be absent all the winter, and did not object to let his magnificent villa to a responsible tenant. The agent wrote Mrs. Howard that she could take possession the first of November. So she waited in London, and, through the friends with whom she had traveled, made some very agreeable acquaintances among people to whom they had letters of introduction. It was not the London season, but many of the best people were in town, and among them some men of letters whom Mrs. Howard was pleased to meet. At some of the little informal receptions she gave to a privileged few, the grace and beauty of her daughter were enthusiastically admired. She never thought it necessary to explain to any one that Fair was only an adopted daughter. “What is the use of explaining everything to strangers whom one meets once or twice, or, at most, only a few times?” she said to Fair one day, adding, a little bitterly, as if the thought were unpleasant: “The distant cousin who is to be my heir will know, and that is enough.” Fair never thought of asking the name of that distant relative. She took no interest in him, or any other man, now that she was out of Carl Bernicci’s reach, and that Bayard Lorraine had gone forever out of her young life. For almost two years she had cherished a hope of meeting him, but lately the hope had lain dormant. Disappointment had chilled and blighted it. “And what would it matter, even if I met him, and even if he would love me? I am married to another man, and am as far from him as the heavens from the earth--parted by the fatal bond that binds me to a hated husband,” she told herself, in secret meditation, for she did not keep a journal now, as in her younger days. In the mature wisdom of nineteen, she considered it imprudent. CHAPTER XVIII. MEETING HER FIRST LOVE. She had never ceased to regret that, when the heartless Mrs. Levy had turned her out of doors, she had forgotten to take with her the little journal, the confidant of her girlish secrets, her love, her hopes, her sorrows. Blushes would always overspread her lovely face and neck when she wondered whether Sadie Allen, or any one else, had read the little book and discovered her foolish secret--her love for Bayard Lorraine. “I hope that no one will ever know that,” she would sigh, most bitterly; yet the old tenderness and the half pique were still there; the blue eyes and the proud, handsome face were still distinct in her memory, and at times a bitter pang would pierce her heart at thought of her wasted love and hopes. And then she would wonder if he was married, and if he was happy with his chosen bride, and such thoughts as these would leave a shadow on her face in even the gayest scenes, causing one of her admirers to exclaim one day that a shadow had crossed the sun.