"May I come in, mamma?" asked the fresh, sonorous voice of Mabel Clarke at the closed door.

"Come in, dearie," replied the soft and expressionless voice of her mother from within.

Mabel entered and with her eyes sought her mother in the spacious room.

"I am here, dearie," murmured her mother, even more softly. Annie Clarke lay stretched upon a large sofa that filled up a whole corner of the room; her head, which had been carefully dressed and the hair passed discreetly through henna, was leaning in a tired way on a pillow of oriental stuff covered with quaint, old lace. A pure white bear-skin, stretched over her knees, covered the edge of the sofa and fell on the ground like a soft white carpet. Around Annie Clarke, on the great bear-skin, on a table beside her, on little tables placed within her reach, were a hundred different objects; a writing-case with everything necessary for writing, a row of flasks and little bottles for salts, scents, and medicines; bundles of unopened reviews, bundles of uncut books, manicure-case, silver and gold boxes of all dimensions for cipria, pastes and pins; paper-knives, another nÉcessaire for opening letters, a large glass filled with a milky drink, wherein was immersed a golden spoon, and close to her right hand was a silver-gilt pear studded with turquoises—the electric bell. But Annie Clarke performed none of these operations, since Mrs. Broughton or Fanny, the trusted maid, before leaving her had gathered around her whatever might be useful to her. There was Annie Clarke, impassive, tranquil; not sad, not happy, perhaps not even thoughtful. On the third finger of her right hand shone an enormous diamond, a most rare jewel; but she wore no other jewels. With a smile Mabel Clarke drew near her mother and bent her head over her. Annie gave a fleeting kiss to her daughter's flowing, rebellious locks, and then offered a smooth and expressionless cheek to be kissed.

"How are you, mammy?"

"I am cold, dearie."

"Cold?"

"Very cold."

Mabel threw a glance at the broad window that almost cut off one of the walls of that room in the "Palace," and which looked out over the lake. In the peculiar frame of light wood which the opened shutters formed and that really seemed like the frame of a vast picture, behind the shining windows, right opposite there was to be seen, but extraordinarily near, a huge mass of the deepest green, the dense wood of Acla Silva, which no house or cottage disturbs. Over the virgin wood a fringe of brightest, almost shimmering blue—the sky; beneath the wood a fringe of steel-blue, motionless and scintillating—the lake. And everything was enveloped and penetrated by the purest light.

"The weather is so beautiful," added Mabel in a harmonious voice. "You are cold because you do not go out."

"I am not a sport like you, Mabel. You know that," exclaimed Annie, shaking her head.

"Ah, que j'adore ce pays!" exclaimed the beautiful girl suddenly in French, with a strong American accent; and the exclamation bubbled forth like a cry of joy, as she smiled delightfully.

"You are right," murmured her mother tranquilly.

Full of joy, Mabel Clarke's large grey eyes, the large enchanting eyes of an almost infantile grey, rested in rapture upon the bright window, where the landscape appeared strangely circumscribed, formed by the immaculate and intense green of the wood, the pureness of the sky, and motionless waters, while the wood, sky, and lake were wrapped in light. Mabel's tall and comely figure and every line and feature of the graceful face breathed youth, serenity, and joy of living. Instead of one of her usual tailor-made dresses, from the round skirts of which were always to be seen the long, well-booted feet, the jacket a little long and angular, allowing one to guess at the flexible lines of her figure, she wore a dress of white cambric, of French style, all fringed and inserted with lace, a soft, rather long dress, with a sash of ivory silk. On her head, instead of one of those round hats with straight brim and a feather like a dagger which completes the Anglo-American tailor-made dress, she wore a large coif hat, trimmed with white cambric, the coif of Charlotte Corday, tied with a sky-blue ribbon, with a large bow at the side. Her parasol and shoes were white, as were her gloves and purse.

"You look very nice, Mabel," said her mother, after gazing and smiling an instant at her dear daughter's figure in the white dress.

"Pour le bon Dieu, chÈre maman," exclaimed the daughter, smiling, and showing her white teeth.

"Are you going to collect in church this morning, dearie? Did you accept, then?"

"Oh, mother! How can one say no to the Archduchess? She takes such an interest in the Catholic church."

"So do we, Mabel; in fact in all Catholic churches. And we are very interested in the Pope!" Annie added with some vivacity. "Did you tell the Archduchess that?"

"Of course I told her."

"Is the Archduchess Vittoria to collect with you?"

"Why, yes!"

"Try to collect more money than she does, Mabel."

"I will try to. Won't you give me something, too, in church?"

"I am not going, dearie. I am tired and cold. I will give it you now and you shall place the money in your plate."

Feeling on the large sofa Annie Clarke found her cheque-book, and drew out her gold pen. Mechanically, on her knees, she wrote a figure on a cheque, almost without looking, signed it, detached the leaf lightly, and, after blotting it, gave it to her daughter.

"Four hundred dollars, Mabel. But there are few rich Catholics here. All the rich people are Jews," murmured Annie Clarke, with a disparaging sneer. "Shall you collect alone?"

"Oh, no; each of us has a companion."

"Who accompanies the Archduchess Vittoria?"

"Comte de Roy, the little Count."

"And you? Don Vittorio Lante, I suppose, my dear?"

"Naturally," replied the girl frankly.

"You are very much in love with him, it seems to me, Mabel."

"Very much."

"He is a nice young man," said Annie Clarke, in a low voice; "I believe he has no fortune."

"I believe so, too, mammy."

"Have you already obtained information about that?"

"No, mammy, I have had no information about it," said the girl discreetly, "but I suppose it."

They spoke quietly, looking each other in the eyes, without a shadow of hesitation in voice or words.

"Are you already engaged to him, Mabel?" Annie Clarke asked, after a minute's silence.

The bright face, where so much youthful beauty smiled, became, as it were, veiled by a very light cloud, which disappeared at once.

"Not yet," the girl replied.

"However, you could tie yourself?" asked the mother.

"Perhaps I could," replied the girl thoughtfully.

"Don't do it without warning me, Mabel, my dear."

"Of course I will not do so without warning you," said the daughter.

Again the rosy face beneath the large white coif, beneath the rebellious chestnut hair, bent to kiss the maternal cheek. Annie Clarke contented herself with giving a little tap of the hand on her daughter's shoulder, as an apology for a caress, and followed her with her eyes as she withdrew.