With a somewhat reluctant air, Emil Correlli offered his arm to his sister and led her toward the woman around whom a group of distinguished people had gathered, and whom she was entertaining with an ease and grace that proclaimed her perfectly at home among the crÊme de la crÊme of society.

She appeared not to perceive the approach of her hostess and her brother, but continued the animated conversation in which she was engaged.

A special observer, however, would have noticed the peculiar fire which began to burn in her beautiful eyes.

When Mr. Correlli presented his sister, she turned with fascinating grace, making a charming acknowledgment, although she did not offer her hostess her hand.

"You are very welcome, Mrs. Stewart," Mrs. Goddard remarked, in response to some words of apology for being a guest in the house without a previous acquaintance. "I only regret that we have not met before."

"Thanks; I, too, deplore the complication of circumstances which has prevented an earlier meeting," was the sweet-voiced response.

But there was a peculiar shading in the remark which, somehow, grated harshly upon Anna Goddard's ears and nerves.

"Who is she, anyhow?" she questioned within herself with a strange feeling of unrest and perplexity. "I never even heard of her until after Emil came; yet there is something about her that makes me feel as if we had met in some other sphere."

She stole a searching glance at the woman's face, only to find her great, luminous eyes fastened upon her with an equally intent gaze.

"Ah!" and with this voiceless ejaculation and a great inward start, some long dormant memory seemed suddenly to have been aroused within her.

There was an instant of awkwardness; then madam, who seldom allowed anything to disturb her self-possession, remarked:

"I am sorry, Mrs. Stewart, that you did not arrive earlier to witness our little play."

But while she was giving utterance to this polite regret, she was saying to herself:

"Yes, there certainly is a look about her that reminds me of—Ugh! She may possibly be a relative, or the resemblance may be merely a coincidence. All the same, I shall not like her any the better for recalling that horror to me."

"Thank you," Mrs. Stewart replied; "no doubt I should have enjoyed it, especially as, I am told, it was original with you and terminated in a real and very pretty wedding."

"Yes; my brother finds that he must leave the city earlier than he anticipated; and, as he was anxious to take his bride with him, he chose this opportunity to celebrate his marriage, and to introduce his wife to our friends."

"Ah! I did not even know that Monsieur Correlli was contemplating matrimony. Who is the favored lady of his choice?" Mrs. Stewart inquired.

"A Miss Edith Allen."

"Edith Allen!" repeated the beautiful stranger, with a start.

"Yes," said Mrs. Goddard, regarding her with surprise, but unmixed with anxiety. "Did you ever meet her?"

"Is she very fair and lovely, with golden hair and deep-blue eyes, a tall, slender figure, and charming manners?" eagerly questioned Mrs. Stewart.

"Yes, you have described her exactly," answered madam, yet secretly more disturbed than before; "but I am surprised that you should know her, for she has been in the city only a short time, and I did not suppose she had made a single acquaintance outside the family."

"Oh, I cannot lay claim to an acquaintance with her, as I have only seen her once, and our meeting was purely accidental," the lady responded. "She rendered me efficient service one day when she was out for a walk, and I inquired her name."

She then proceeded to explain the nature of that service and the accident that had called it forth, and concluded by remarking:

"Allow me to say I think that Monsieur Correlli has shown excellent taste in his choice of a wife. I was charmed with the young lady, and I would like to meet her again. Will you introduce me?" and she looked eagerly about the room in search of the graceful form and lovely face which she was so desirous of seeing.

"I am very sorry that I cannot comply with your request," said Mrs. Goddard, flushing slightly; "but Edith is rather delicate and the reception, after the marriage, was such a strain upon her that she fainted and was obliged to retire."

"That was very unfortunate," Mrs. Stewart observed, while she searched her companion's face curiously, "but I trust that I may have the pleasure of meeting her later."

"I cannot promise as to that," madam replied, "as it is my brother's intention to go abroad as soon as he can complete his arrangements to do so, although no date has been set as yet. But—have you ever met my husband. Mrs. Stewart?" she inquired, as that gentleman was seen approaching their way that moment.

"No, I have never had that honor," the lady returned; then added, with a light laugh: "I feel very much like an intruder to be here to-night as a stranger to both my host and hostess."

"Pray do not be troubled on that account," madam hastened cordially to reply: "any friend of my brother would be a welcome guest, and I am charmed to have made your acquaintance."

"Thank you," responded the beautiful stranger; but madam marveled at the line of white encircling the scarlet lips, as she signaled to her husband and called him by name:

"Gerald."

He glanced up, and both women noticed the expression of weariness and trouble upon his brow.

"You have not been introduced to Emil's friend, I think," his wife continued. "Allow me to present Mrs. Stewart—Mrs. Stewart, my husband, Mr. Goddard."

The gentleman bowed with all his accustomed courtesy, but did not fairly get a glimpse of the lady's face until they both assumed an upright position again, when he found himself looking straight into the magnificent eyes of his guest.

As he met them it seemed as if some one had stabbed him to the heart, so sudden and terrible was the shock that he experienced.

He changed an involuntary groan into a cough, but he could not have been more ghastly if he had been dead, while he continued to gaze upon her as if fascinated.

"Ha! he has noticed it also!" said madam to herself, with a sudden heart-sinking.

Then realizing that something must be done to relieve the awkwardness of the situation, she hastened to observe:

"Mrs. Stewart has only just arrived—she did not come in season to witness our little drama."

Mr. Goddard murmured some polite words of regret, but feeling all the while as if he were turning to stone.

Mrs. Stewart, however, responded in a pleasant vein, and chatted sociably for a few moments, when, some other friends joining them, more introductions followed, and the conversation became general.

Gerald Goddard improved this opportunity to slip away; but his wife, who was covertly watching his every look and movement, noticed that he walked with the uncertain step of one who was either blind or intoxicated.

A feeling of depression settled upon her—a sense of impending evil, which, try as she would, she could neither forget nor shake off.

She began to be very impatient of all the glitter, glare, and gayety around her, and told herself that she would be heartily glad when the last dance was over, and the last guest had departed.

Truly, there is many an aching heart hidden beneath costly raiment and glittering jewels; and society is, to a large extent, but a smiling mask in which people hold high revel over the tombs of dead hopes and disappointed ambitions.

But fashion and folly must have their time; and so, in spite of madam's heart-ache and weariness, the dancing and merriment went on, no one dreamed of the phantom memories and the ghosts from out the past that were stalking about the beautiful rooms of that elegant mansion; or that its enviable (?) master and mistress were treading upon the verge of a volcano which, at any moment, was liable to burst all bounds and pour forth its furious lava-tide to consume them.

An hour later Mrs. Stewart again sought her hostess and wished her good-night, remarking that circumstances which she could not control compelled her to take an early leave.

"Ah! that is unfortunate, for supper will shortly be announced; cannot you possibly remain to partake of it?" madam urged, with cordial hospitality.

"Thanks, no; but I am promising myself the pleasure of meeting you again in the near future," Mrs. Stewart returned, shooting a searching glance at her hostess.

Her language and manner were perfect; but, for the second time that evening, Anna Goddard noticed the peculiar shading in her words, and a chill that was like a breath from an iceberg went shivering over her.

She, however, replied courteously, and then Mrs. Stewart swept from the room upon the arm of her attendant.

Many earnest and curious glances followed the stately couple, for the lady was reported to be immensely rich, while it had also been whispered that the gentleman attending her—a distinguished artist—had long been a suitor for her hand; but, for some reason best known to herself, the lady had thus far turned a deaf ear to his entreaties, although it was evident that she regarded him with the greatest esteem, if not with sentiments of a tenderer nature.

After passing through the covered walk leading to the house, the two separated—the gentleman to attend to having their carriage called, the lady to go upstairs for her wraps.

As she was about to enter the dressing-room to get them, a picture hanging between two windows at the end of the hall attracted her eye.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, catching her breath sharply, and moving swiftly toward it, she seemed to forget everything, and stood, with clasped hands and heaving bosom, spell-bound before it.

It represented a portion of an old Roman wall—a marvelously picturesque bit of scenery, with climbing vines that seemed to cling to the gray stones lovingly, as if to conceal their irregular lines and other ravages which time and the elements had made upon them; while here and there, growing out from its crevices, were clusters of delicate maiden-hair fern, the bright green of which contrasted beautifully with the weather-beaten wall and the darker, richer coloring of the vines.

Just underneath, partly in the shadow of the wall, there sat, upon a rustic bench, a beautiful Italian girl, dressed in the costume of her country, while at her feet reclined her lover, his hat lying on the grass beside him, his handsome face upturned to the maiden, whom it was evident he adored.

It was a charming picture, very artistic, and finely executed, while the subject was one that appealed strongly to the tenderest sentiments of the human heart.

But the face of the woman who was gazing upon it was deathly white. She was motionless as a statue, and seemed to have forgotten time, place, and her surroundings, as she drank in with her wonderful eyes the scene before her.

"It is the wall upon the Appian Way in Rome," she breathed at last, with a long-drawn sigh.

"You are right, madam," responded a voice close at hand, the sound of which caused the woman to press her clasped hands hard upon her heaving bosom, though she gave no other sign of being startled.

The next moment she turned and faced the speaker.

It was Gerald Goddard.

"I heard no one approaching—I thought I was alone," she said, as she lifted those wonderful eyes of hers to his.

He shrank from her glance as under a lightning flash that had burst upon him unawares.

But quickly recovering himself, he courteously remarked:

"Pardon me—I trust I have not startled you."

"Only momentarily," she replied; then added: "I was admiring this painting; it is very lovely and—most faithfully portrays the scene from which it was copied."

"Ah! you recognize the—the locality?"

"Perfectly."

"You—you have been in—Rome?" the man faltered.

"Oh, yes."

"Recently?"

There was a sort of breathless intensity about the man as he asked this question.

"No; I was in Rome—in the year 18—."

At this response, Gerald Goddard involuntarily put out his hand and laid it upon the balustrade, near which he was standing, while he gazed spell-bound into the proud, beautiful face before him, searching it with wild, eager eyes.

After a moment he partially recovered himself, and remarked:

"Is it possible? I myself was in Rome during the same year and painted this picture at that time. Were—were you in the city long?" he concluded, in a voice that trembled in spite of himself.

"From January until—until June."

For the second time that evening Mr. Goddard suppressed a groan with a cough.

"Ah! It is a singular coincidence, is it not, that I also was there during those months?" he finally managed to articulate.

"A coincidence?" his companion repeated, with a slight lifting of her shapely brows, a curious gleam in her eyes. Then throwing back her head with an air of defiance which was intensified by the glitter of those magnificent stones which crowned her lustrous hair, and with a peculiar cadence ringing through her tones, she observed: "Rome is a lovely city—do you not think so? And, as it happened, I resided in a delightful portion of it. Possibly you may remember the locality. It was a charming little house, with beautiful trees—oleander, orange, and fig—growing all around the spacious court. This pretty ideal home was Number 34, Via Nationale."

The wretched man stared helplessly at her for one brief moment when she had concluded, then a cry of despair burst from him.

"Oh, God! I knew it! You—you are Isabel?"

"Yes."

"Then you were not—you did not—"

"Die? No," was the brief response; but the beautiful eyes looking so steadily into his seemed to burn into his very soul.

A mighty shudder shook Gerald Goddard from head to foot as he reeled backward and leaned against the wall for support.

"Oh, God!" he cried again, in a voice of agony; then his head dropped heavily upon his breast.

His companion gazed silently upon him for a minute; then, turning, she brushed by him without a word and went on into the dressing-room for her wraps.

Presently she came forth again, enveloped from head to foot in a long garment richly lined with fur, the scarlet lining of the hood contrasting beautifully with her clear, flawless complexion and her brown eyes.

Gerald Goddard still stood where she had left him.

She would have passed him without a word, but he put out a trembling hand to detain her.

"Isabel!" he faltered.

"Mrs. Stewart, if you please," she corrected, in a cold, proud tone.

"Ha! you have married again!" he exclaimed, with a start, while he searched her face with a despairing look.

"Married again?" she repeated, with curling lips. "I have not so perjured myself."

"But—but—"'

"Yes, I know what you would say," she interposed, with a proud little gesture; "nevertheless, I claim the matron's title, and 'Stewart' was my mother's maiden name," and she was about to pass on again.

"Stay!" said the man, nervously. "I—I must see you again—I must talk further with you."

"Very well," the lady coldly returned, "and I also have some things which I wish to say to you. I shall be at the Copley Square Hotel on Thursday afternoon. I will see you as early as you choose to call."

Then, with an air of grave dignity, she passed on, and down the stairs, without casting one backward glance at him.

The man leaned over the balustrade and watched her.

She moved like a queen.

In the hall below she was joined by her attendant, whom she welcomed with a ravishing smile, and the next moment they had passed out of the house together.

"Heavens! and I deserted that glorious woman for—a virago!" Gerald Goddard muttered, hoarsely, as he strode, white and wretched, to his room.