"I will never breathe its name," laughed Lyon.
"Then the character I shall take is--"
"What?"
"Fire!"
"Fire?"
"Fire."
"Ha! ha! ha! it will suit you admirably, my little Berners of the
Burning Heart. But how on earth will you contrive to costume and
impersonate the consuming element?"
"It would take me a week to tell you, and then you would not understand.
But you shall see."
"I hope you will not set all your company in a flame; that is all, my
dear."
"But I shall try to do so. And now, dear Lyon, if you wish to help me,
sit down at my writing-table there, and fill out and direct the
invitations, you will find the visiting list, printed cards, and blank
envelopes all in a parcel in the desk."
"But is it not early to send them?" inquired Mr. Berners, as he seated
himself at the table.
"No; not for a mask ball. This is the tenth. The ball is to come off on
the thirty-first. If the cards are sent to-day, our friends will have
just three weeks to get ready, which will not be too long to select
their characters and contrive their costumes."
"I suppose you know best, my dear," said Mr. Berners, as he referred to
the visiting list and began to prepare for his task.
Sybil went to her dressing-glass and began to arrange her somewhat
disordered hair. While she stood there, she suddenly inquired: "Where did you leave Mrs. Blondelle?"
"I did not leave her anywhere. She left me. She excused herself, and
went--to her room, I suppose."
"Ah!" sighed Sybil. She did not like this answer. She was sorry to know
that her husband had remained with the beauty until the beauty had left
him. She tortured herself with the thought that, if Mrs. Blondelle had
remained in the morning room, Mr. Berners would have been there at her
side.
So morbid was now the condition of Sybil that a word was enough to
arouse her jealousy, a caress sufficient to allay it. She would not
leave Lyon to himself, she thought. He should know the difference
between his wife and his guest in that particular. So the guest, being
now in her own room, where her hostess heartily wished she might spend
the greater portion of the day, Sybil felt free from the pressing duties
of hospitality, at least for the time being; and so she drew a chair to
the corner of the same table occupied by her husband, and she began to
help him in his task by directing the envelopes, while he filled out
the cards. Thus sitting together, working in unison, and conversing
occasionally, they passed the morning--a happier morning than Sybil had
seen for several days.
But of course they met their guest again at dinner, where Rosa Blondelle
was as fascinating and Lyon Berners as much fascinated as before, and
where Sybil's mental malady returned in full force.