"Beautiful! You must be speaking of our new prima donna. In my opinion she is perfect; but you, Lord Hilton, have only seen her from the stage—can form no idea of her loveliness, or of her voice either. There was nothing, the other night, that could compare with her singing at our little supper here. Besides, her beauty, to be appreciated, must be seen close. There is not a fault in her face or form, I can assure you."
Lord Hilton's face flushed angrily, then a slow whiteness crept over it again, and he bent his head, unable to speak. The task he had imposed on himself had become terribly painful.
Olympia was not particularly pleased with this high praise of another, though all her ambitious hopes lay in the success of the person on whom these encomiums were lavished. She began to shake up the sparkles in her wine by swaying the glass to and fro with her hand, and a sullen frown crept over her face.
"She is obstinate as a mule," she muttered; "tall and proud as Lucifer—not at all like me. But they will rave about her beauty, just as if she were more likely to live than to die."
"What did you say?" cried Lord Hilton, sharply; "die! die! Is there any danger? Is she so ill?"
Olympia lifted her sleepy eyelids and flashed a suspicious glance at him.
"Ah!" she exclaimed; "are you there! I thought so."
"You are not answering me," was the cold reply.
"You asked if there existed any danger, and I answer, yes. Did you think we were practicing stage effects in the journals? My poor Caroline is ill—very ill."
"And what made her ill?"