his crown, and all arranged and placed with perfect artistic and poetic taste. Ouida's boudoir was palatial with its tiger skin rugs, couches, mirrors and jeweled cases. Her sleeping couch was draped in richest silks, and was as soft and as alluring as ever enticed to sleep the troubled head of a queen.
On leaving the church, Ouida had entered her carriage, in which, by an imperious wave of the hand, she had been driven quickly to her residence. There, with the assistance of her sweet-faced maid, she had disrobed and was quickly attired in a soft and clinging negligee apparel, which women delight in, and which men cannot describe. This done, pointing to the door, she almost fiercely said: "Go!"
The little maid stood a moment, amazed, for never before had her mistress been so harsh, but slowly she turned and silently moved toward the door. Ouida, quickly shamed into atonement, said: "Lucile!"
Quickly and gladly the joyous girl bounded back, and almost tearfully said: "Is my mistress angry with me?"
"Child," said Ouida, "I angry with you!" The great creature stooped and kissed Lucile's forehead. "I am troubled with the nasty world."
Left alone, the artist paced the floor of her boudoir like a lioness from whose breasts her cubs had been rudely torn.
"I hate them all. None can be trusted. This one seemed nobler than the rest. I revealed more of the woman in me to him than to any creature born. See how he repays me, my art. I could forgive him who preaches against my life, for I have given the world the right to talk; but when he attacks true art, the Goddess at whose
