AT THE BALL.
"I like Madame Vanira," said the Countess of Lanswell, a few days after the introduction. "She is not only the most gifted singer of the present day, but she is an uncommon type of woman. Who or what was she?"
My lady was seated in her own drawing-room in the midst of a circle of morning callers. Lord Chandos was there, and he listened with some amusement to the conversation that followed. The countess was speaking to Major Hautbois, who was supposed to know the pedigree of everybody. She looked at him now for the information he generally gave readily, but the major's face wore a troubled expression.
"To tell the truth," he replied, "I have heard so many conflicting stories as to the lady's origin that I am quite at a loss which to repeat."
Lady Lanswell smiled at the naive confession.
"Truth does wear a strange aspect at times," she said. "When Major Hautbois has to choose between many reports, I should say that none of them were true. Myself," she continued, "I should say that Madame Vanira was well-born—she has a patrician face."
Lord Chandos thought of the "dairy-maid," and sighed while he smiled. Ah, if his mother could but have seen Leone with the same eyes with which she saw Madame Vanira all would have been well.
It was quite evident that my lady did not in the least recognize her—there could be no doubt of it. She continued to praise her.
"I have always," she said, "been far above what I consider the littleness of those people who think to show their superiority by abusing the stage, or rather by treating with supercilious contempt those who ornament the stage. Something," she added, with an air of patronage, "is due to queens."
And again Lord Chandos smiled bitterly to himself. If his mother had but owned these opinions a short time before, how different life might have been. Lady Lanswell turned to her son.