"
Marguerite had retired to her own room. She was sitting at a small
ebony writing desk, jotting down a few thoughts in her diary When
her sister entered, but now arose and drew forth a luxurious
arm-chair for the imperious beauty to recline in.
"If worrying myself to death would do me any good, I might try it
too, Evelyn; but as it does not, I try to make the best of it."
"There you are again, with your philosophical ideas. I must expect
nothing else from one who cares so little for the opinions of
others, and lives only in sight of all the old half-crazed poets and
fanatics of the Dark Ages."
Marguerite durst not look toward the speaker, lest her quizzical
expression might heap further assault upon her; so she sat quietly
regarding a favorite print that hung over the mantelshelf. After a
few moments silence, Evelyn drew herself up haughtily and arose to
go, when Marguerite felt a rising sensation in her throat, and
instantly rushed into her sister's arms. "Eve, dearest, I know you
are disappointed in not going out this evening, and I am sorry; can
you not believe me?"
Evelyn Verne was a beauty--beautiful as an houri, imperial as
Cleopatra, but merciless as a De Medicis.
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