‘Oh, my dear! you have not heard half of it! She tells such stories, sometimes, as would make your hair stand on end. And doubtless a good deal more has reached Mrs. Thrale’s ears than she chooses to acknowledge, and that is the reason of her letter to me.’ ‘Mrs. Thrale! What, Arthur Thrale’s mother? Has she written to you?’ ‘Didn’t I tell you? Why, that’s the real reason Sophy has gone off to Rille. She is so afraid of the inquiries that may ensue. This morning, my dear, I received a letter from Mrs. Thrale, whom I’ve never seen in the course of my life, begging me to look after her son, whom she has heard is very intimate with my friends and myself, and whom she avers has lost any amount of money since he has been in St. Pucelle.’ ‘_How_ has he lost it?’ I demanded eagerly. ‘Ah, that’s the question! How has it gone? The lad is staying at the same hotel as we are, at the instigation of Miss Markham, who persuaded him to follow us here, but, excepting out of doors, Willie and I see very little of him. However, Sophy and he have been _always_ together—morning, noon and night, uphill and downhill; and I, of course, have had no right to interfere. But one thing I _know_, and that is, that young Thrale has given her the most beautiful presents; and presents, Miss Marsh, are not bought for nothing.’ ‘No, indeed! But he must have been very extravagant to make his mother write of him as she has done.’ ‘She says he has lost or parted with hundreds of pounds since he has been in St. Pucelle, and entreats me to reason with him on his folly, and to persuade him, if possible, to return home to his parents. But I have no control over the young man’s actions. And how can he have parted with his money except by spending it on that woman? He knows no one here but ourselves and Mr. Lovett, and, I think, that elegant-looking foreign baron who lives up in the forest. Sophia Markham would have tried to get up a flirtation with _him_ also, if she could have managed to speak French well enough, but, notwithstanding her boasting, she is a poor hand at it if she has to say anything out of the common way.’ ‘It would have been of little use to her if she had been successful,’ I said, smiling, ‘for the Baron de Nesselrode is too poor to make presents to any one.’ ‘Her face, when I taxed her with ruining Arthur Thrale, was a perfect study, and I feel almost sure she has done more than take presents from him. She ran upstairs and put on her hat at once, and not a minute afterwards I heard she was going to Rille. To see the other one, of course, and try what she can do now with him. For it is only an excuse, saying she wants to buy something, my dear, for we had already planned to go over in a party to Rille, to-morrow morning.’ ‘Do you still intend to go, Mrs. Carolus? and if so, will you execute a commission for me?’ I asked. ‘Certainly, Miss Marsh! Anything that I can do for you. What is it that you require?’