The once proud and queenly sculptress sat alone, all pale and haggard, in her humble, ill-furnished abode, a prey to emotions that scorched her soul.
"Society never pardoned me," she thought, "my genius and fame, and when passion enslaved me and my back was turned, the cruel jade stabbed me in a fatal spot. I thought I could offer defiance to custom's rigid rule. I dreamed I was a queen, to whom the world owed obedience. I awoke, and found I was a woman, strong only in passionate devotion. Yet, could I turn back the hand of time, I would not change. Eternal poverty, exposure, shame, disgrace with him, is better than Paradise without. I have had pointed at me the finger of scorn, and yet upon his aching breast, I have found a consolation so deep and sweet, that it gave oblivion to the taunts without."
Her reverie was disturbed by a knock at the door.
"Come in," she said.
Doane entered.
"Ah," said he, placing his glass to his eye, "can it be? Do my eyes deceive me? Ouida Angelo!"
"Yes," she said, "and what can you want with me?"
"You surely believe me," he said, in exquisite irony, "when I tell you that I did not expect to find you here?"
"Then," said she coldly, "you will have no objection to making your stay as brief as possible. You see, I am not in a position to properly entertain so distinguished a visitor."
"Oh, don't let that worry you," said he, with cool impudence. "I'll take a seat; you don't mind, do you?"
