A month later, the sun, which in England was shining with a sickly affectation of geniality, was pouring a flood of warmth and light on every house and street in Naples. Color, warmth, brightness were all there, not in niggardly patches, but in lavish profusion, and in no spot of the enchanted city more profuse than in the palace in which resided the Earl and Countess of Ferrers; for to Naples they had come, and, needless to say, Mr. Austin with them.

But though he had prophesied that Violet should be happier there than she had ever been, his prophecy had not yet fulfilled itself, for even the Naples' sun could not thaw Blair's heart, and, as in England, there was still that weary, absent expression in his face which proclaims the man to whom life has become joyless and hopeless.

Of all the noble palaces which the Neapolitans so cheerfully let to the English visitors, the palace Austin Ambrose had chosen was the most sumptuous; and if rooms which emperors might have dwelt in, and surroundings which would have inspired a poet, could have made a woman happy, then Violet Countess of Ferrers should have been the most beatified of her sex. But on this glorious evening in spring, she was lying on her couch on the balcony overlooking the bay with the same restless fire in her eyes, the old red fever spots on her cheeks. Leaning over the balcony was Mr. Austin Ambrose attired in a spotless linen suit, with a cigar between his lips, and his eyes keenly noting the passers-by in the street beneath him.

"What are you staring at? Have you become suddenly dumb?" exclaimed Lady Violet, with irritability.

"I was looking at the beggars," he said, with a patience in a marked contrast to her impatience. "Naples is the paradise of the mendicant. Shall I wheel you nearer the balcony?—you would find them very amusing."

She looked over listlessly.

"They are not amusing," she complained, shrugging her shoulders.

"At any rate they are a study," he said. "There are beggars of every nationality under the sun, I should think. Strange how easy it is to distinguish them, even through their rags. There is the Neapolitan, for instance, that old man there with the boy; and there is a Spaniard, and there are two Frenchmen, and there is an English girl——" He stopped suddenly, and let his cigar fall to the ground.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"The matter?" he said, turning with a smile, though his face wore a strange expression. "What do you mean?"

"Why you start as if you had seen a ghost?"

"Oh, come; you are fanciful this evening," he retorted laughing.

"But you did start!" she persisted, listlessly.

"I never contradict a lady," he said lightly. "But believe me, the movement was unconscious," and he took out his cigar-case and languidly chose a fresh cigar; but as he did so, he leaned over the balcony, and keenly scrutinized the crowd beneath; for that which had caused him to start, and drop his cigar, was the form of some one who bore a strange likeness to Lottie Belvoir.

Mr. Austin Ambrose looked in the direction the girl had taken, but she had disappeared, probably up one of the narrow streets, and smiling at the fancied resemblance, he smoked on comfortably and devoted his attention to the crowd. Presently a servant came from the room behind them, and handed a card on a salver.

The countess took it languidly.

"What a nuisance people are! Did you say that we were not at home?"

"Yes, my lady," said the footman; "but his highness wrote on the card, my lady."

"His highness!" exclaimed Violet contemptuously. "Every second man one meets in Italy is a count or a prince! What is it he has written, Austin? Your Italian is better, than mine."

Austin Ambrose took the card.

"This is not Italian, it is English," he said. "'Prince Rivani begs the honor of the Earl of Ferrers' presence at a conversazione. Palace Augustus, this evening at ten o'clock.'"

"I thought it was understood that we did not visit?" said Violet languidly. "Why do people bother us? Prince Rivani! This is the second time he has left his card."

"His highness is very attentive, at any rate," said Austin Ambrose. "Shall you go?"

"Seeing that I am not asked," said Violet, "it is not very probable."

"Oh, I expect it is one of those gatherings which these Italians delight in: a little music, a little weak lemonade, and mild tobacco. Blair might like to go."

"Here is Blair to answer for himself," said Violet, as Blair strode on to the balcony.

"What is it?" he said, looking from one to the other.

"Only an invitation," replied Austin Ambrose. "I don't suppose you would care for it. You will be bored to death."

"'Prince Rivani.' He called the other day," said Blair thoughtfully, as he leant over the balcony. "Would you care to go, Violet?"

"I am not invited," she said impatiently. "Don't you see it mentions you only?"

"Ah, yes, a bachelor's party," said Blair. "I may go; it is a lovely day. I have been on the hills, and—Ah!" he exclaimed, and he leant over the balcony with a sudden appearance of interest.

Austin Ambrose glided to his side.

"What is the matter? Is it anything wonderful?" said the countess, and she rose from the couch and looked over.

Blair bit his lip.

"It is nothing," he said, "I thought I saw someone I knew."

"You are like Austin," she said, coiling herself on the couch again; "he started and dropped his cigar just now."

Blair walked out of her hearing, and beckoned Austin Ambrose.

"Do you know whom it was I saw just now?" he said.

"Couldn't guess," replied Austin.

"It was Lottie Belvoir," said Blair.

"Oh, nonsense; it's impossible!" said Austin Ambrose, lightly. "I tell you she is on an English tour at this present moment. How on earth could she be here?"

"I do not know, but I am certain it was she," said Blair, gravely.

"I'll soon convince you," said Austin Ambrose, and he disappeared. He mingled with the crowd for five minutes; then he was back again. "As I thought," he said, with a smile. "She is a Neapolitan girl with a face rather like Lottie's."

"Rather like!" said Blair, with a sigh of relief. "It was an astonishing resemblance, but if you saw the girl closely it is all right."

But the resemblance to Lottie of the girl in rags in the streets of Naples haunted him several times that evening, and on his way to Prince Rivani's rooms, he found himself unconsciously scanning the faces of the women who passed, as if he feared to see the girl.

Of Prince Rivani he had of course heard, but he had not seen him yet, and it was with a languid kind of curiosity that he followed the footman into the salon.

There were about fifteen or twenty gentlemen present, most of them smoking cigarettes, and from their midst a tall, patrician-looking figure came to meet him.

Blair, though he had heard of the prince's popularity and his good looks, was not prepared for so handsome a face; and he was looking at him with interest when he was struck by the expression of the prince's eye. It seemed as if he were regarding Blair with a scrutiny far and away beyond that usual on the part of a host greeting a guest for the first time. The prince's face, too, was pale, and his lips compressed as if by some suppressed emotion. But his courtesy was perfection.

"I am honored, Lord Ferrers," he said bowing, as he just touched Blair's hand. "Let me introduce you to some friends of mine," and he led Blair round the room, making him known to one and another. There were some Englishmen there—one meets them everywhere, from Kamtchatka to the plains of Loo!-and he got into conversation with one and another.

Presently, just as he was thinking of taking his leave, the prince came up to him.

"Are you fond of art, Lord Ferrers?" he inquired, in a grave voice.

Blair shook his head.

"I like a good picture, but I don't know anything about it," he said. "You have a very fine collection, have you not?"

The prince shrugged his shoulders.

"Not so fine as that at Leyton Court, Lord Ferrers," he said, with a bow. "But I possess one picture which I value above all the others. I am so attached to it that it travels about with me; it is here, in my writing room. Would you care to see it? I think it will repay you for your trouble."

Blair rose at once.

"I should like to very much," he said.

The prince led the way to a small room on the same floor, and stood before a picture, closely curtained.

"You will want plenty of light," he said, turning up the gas as he spoke, "and if you will sit just there, Lord Ferrers, you will be in the most favorable position."

At the same time he himself took up his stand by the curtain, with his eyes fixed piercingly upon Blair's face.

"Now," he said, "I want you to tell me exactly how this picture strikes you at first sight. You shall examine it closely and criticise it afterward. I ought to tell you that it has made the artist famous."

As he spoke, still keeping his eyes fixed upon Blair's face, he drew the curtain. Blair had not felt much interest in the proceedings, and expected to see some piece of artistic trickery, and so leant back to take it at his ease; when suddenly, as if the veil of the past had been rent asunder, there sprung upon his sight the picture of his Margaret lying on the rocks at Appleford; the exact representation of her death as he had pictured it, alas! how often!

Trembling and almost beside himself, he had forgotten the presence of the prince, who, mute as himself, stood with folded arras regarding him with a stern look.

"Does the picture please you, Lord Ferrers?" he said, and there was something ominous in his voice.

Blair started and turned to him.

"I—I beg your pardon. Yes, it is a marvelous picture. But there is something connected with it; I——" he sank into the chair and covered his face with his hands.

The prince stood regarding him in silence for a moment; then he drew the curtain over the picture and turned to Blair.

"My lord, you will understand why I showed you that picture. There need be not one word spoken between us in reference to it. Your face has told me all I want to know; my actions will explain my motives. Lord Ferrers will understand that if I treat him with discourtesy when we return to the company, that I do it to provide an excuse for our meeting to-morrow morning."

"Our meeting?" said Blair, who had scarcely listened to, and certainly had not understood, the prince's words.

Prince Rivani's face grew black.

"Lord Ferrers prefers to ruin women rather than fight with men! Ah, yes!"

Blair rose at once.

"I don't understand you," he said, quietly; "but if you wish to challenge me you need not be afraid that I shall decline. Why you should want to shoot me I scarcely know——"

"It is a lie!" hissed the prince, driven almost mad by what he considered Blair's prevarication.

"Thanks," said Blair, with a short nod. "At any rate, Prince Rivani, you have made it clear why I should shoot you!"