She came, from a day spent out, one evening, into Margie’s dressing-room.  Miss Harrison was preparing for the opera.  There was a new prima donna, and Archer was anxious for her to hear the wonder.  Margie had never looked lovelier.  Her pink silk dress, with the corsage falling away from the shoulders, and the sleeves leaving the round arms bare, was peculiarly becoming, and the pearl necklace and bracelets—­Archer’s gift—­were no whiter or purer than the throat and wrists they encircled.

Alexandrine stood a moment in the door, looking at the lovely picture presented by her young hostess.  A pang, vague and unacknowledged, wrung her heart, and showed itself on her countenance.  But she came forward with expressions of admiration.

“You are perfect, Margie—­absolutely perfect!  Poor gentlemen! how I pity them to-night!  How their wretched hearts will ache!”

Margie laughed.

“Nonsense, Alex, don’t be absurd!  Go and dress yourself.  I am going to the opera, and you must accompany us.”

“Us—­who may that plural pronoun embody?”

“Myself—­and Mr. Trevlyn.”

“Ah! thank you.  Mr. Trevlyn may not care for an addition to his nice little arrangement for a tete-a-tete.”

“Don’t be vexed, Alexandrine.  We thought you would pass the evening at your friend’s, and Archer only came in to tell me a few hours ago.”

“Of course I am not vexed, dear,” and the girl kissed Margie’s glowing cheek.  “Lovers will be lovers the world over.  Silly things, always, and never interesting company for other people.  How long before Mr. Trevlyn is coming for you?”

Margie consulted her watch.

“At eight.  It is now seven.  In an hour.”

“In an hour!  An hour’s time!  Long enough to change the destiny of empires!”

“How strangely you talk, Alexandrine!  What spirit possesses you?” asked Margie, filled, in spite of herself, with a curious premonition of evil.

Alexandrine sat down by the side of her friend, and looked searchingly into her face, her great black eyes holding Margie with a sort of serpent-like fascination.

“Margaret, you love this Archer Trevlyn very dearly do you not?”

Margie blushed crimson, but she answered, proudly: 

“Why need I be ashamed to confess it?  I do.  I love him with my whole soul!”

“And you do not think there is in you any possibility of a change?”

“A change!  What do you mean?  Explain yourself.”

“You do not think the time will ever come when you will cease to love Mr. Arthur Trevlyn?”

“It will never come!” Margie replied, indignantly, “never, while I have my reason!”

“Do you believe in love’s immortality?”

“I believe that all true love is changeless as eternity!  I am not a child, Alexandrine, to be blown about by every passing breeze.”

“No, you are a woman now, with a woman’s capability of suffering.  You ought, also, to be possessed of woman’s resolution of a woman’s strength to endure sorrow and affliction.”