It was on the last night of one of these protracted visits that Robert Stafford's wife found the long-waited-for chance to unburden her heart. She and Fanny had been to the opera and just returned home. Virginia was in her boudoir, still wearing the magnificent gown and wonderful jewels which made her the cynosure of every eye in the Metropolitan's aristocratic horse-shoe circle. Fanny had gone to her own apartment and Josephine, the French maid, took from her mistress her cloak and opera bag. While the girl disposed of the articles she chattered in French:
"Je pensais que Madame rentrerait un peu plus tard—"
"Yes," replied Virginia languidly, "we returned much earlier than we expected. The opera was stupid—"
Josephine, a born diplomat, stopped short and, going into ecstasies over her mistress's gown, exclaimed rapturously:
"Oh, que Madame est jolie ce soir, vraiement ravissante!"
"I'm glad the gown looks well," replied Virginia with an air of weary indifference as she sank down on a sofa.
"Mais oui—Madame n'a jamais été si jolie."
"Donnez moi mes pantoufles," said her mistress with a yawn. She was very tired and was glad to change her tight opera slippers for more comfortable footwear.
"Oui, Madame!"
Josephine knelt down, took off the dainty slippers, and, going to a closet, brought a pair of easy bedroom slippers and put them on.