She stood by the mantle, queen-like—­so the representatives from several States remarked—­and all the evening fresh comers offered homage.

“Ma foi!” said the old Brazilian ambassador, as he gazed at her through his eye-glass, and smacked his lips.

“Tiens!” responded the sexagenarian representative from Chili, half-closing one eye.

CHAPTER LXXXV.

GETTING READY.

Hope Wayne had not forgotten the threat which Abel had vaguely thrown out; but she supposed it was only an expression of disappointment and indignation.  Could she have seen him a few evenings after the ball and his conversation with Mrs. Delilah Jones, she might have thought differently.

He sat with the same woman in her room.

“To-morrow, then?” she said, looking at him, hesitatingly.

“To-morrow,” he answered, grimly.

“I hope all will go well.”

“All what?” he asked, roughly.

“All our plans.”

“Abel Newt was not born to fail,” he replied; “or at least General Belch said so.”

His companion had no knowledge of what Abel really meant to do.  She only knew that he was capable of every thing, and as for herself, her little mask had fallen, and she did not even wish to pick it up again.

They sat together silently for a long time.  He poured freely and drank deeply, and whiffed cigar after cigar nervously away.  The few bells of the city tolled the hours.  Ele had come during the evening and knocked at the door, but Abel did not let him in.  He and his companion sat silently, and heard the few bells strike.

“Well, Kitty,” he said at last, thickly, and with glazing eye.  “Well, my Princess of the Mediterranean.  We shall be happy, hey?  You’re not afraid even now, hey?”

“Oh, we shall be very happy,” she replied, in a low, wild tone, as if it were the night wind that moaned, and not a woman’s voice.

He looked at her for a few moments.  He saw how entirely she was enthralled by him.

“I wonder if I care any thing about you?” he said at length, leering at her through the cigar-smoke.

“I don’t think you do,” she answered, meekly.

“But my—­my—­dear Mrs. Jones—­the su-superb Mrs. Delilah Jo-Jones ought to be sure that I do.  Here, bring me a light:  that dam—­dam—­cigar’s gone out.”

She rose quietly and carried the candle to Abel.  There was an inexpressible weariness and pathos in all her movements:  a kind of womanly tranquillity that was touchingly at variance with the impression of her half-coarse appearance.  As Abel watched her he remembered the women whom he had tried to marry.  His memory scoured through his whole career.  He thought of them all variously happy.

“I swear! to think I should come to you!” he said at length, looking at his companion, with an indescribable bitterness of sneering.