"You will never guess what she said," stuttered the other lady, who was almost purple in the face, and whose expression and gaspings threatened apoplexy. "She—she—said, 'Excuse me—but I think I ought to tell you—that I am—Mrs. Gascoigne.'" Sensation. * * * * * A sensation which circulated round the table, and thrilled the little circle; such a sensation had not been experienced since the hailstones in the thunderstorm had broken the skylight, and hopped about on the billiard-table. On the present occasion, the sensation was limited to the ladies, and a proud woman was she, who could rehearse effectively the little scene, as she sat at dinner, to the partner of her joys and jokes. In about twenty minutes' time, when the ladies had somewhat recovered from the shock, and had done their best to recall and recapitulate what had been said—and what had _not_ been said—Mrs. Fitzjohn and Mrs. Danvers, the deep-voiced matron, resumed their conversation, the latter was really eager to talk of her old friend Lola. "Is it not strange that you and I should be discussing Lola Hargreaves, and that just here in this little out-of-the-way station, are two of her friends. The world is a small place. Have you seen her lately?" "About a year ago; but I only know her as Mrs. Waldershare, and I would not call myself—her friend——" "No?" sitting up rather aghast. "She used to be such a nice girl, and so pretty, and popular." "Oh, she is very good-looking indeed, but I would scarcely label her as _nice_. She is a desperate gambler—that is no secret. Mr. Waldershare found her out, and had twice to pay enormous sums she lost at Monte Carlo." "Dear me—it seems incredible." "Yes, for she is so charming and seductive—she deceives casual acquaintances. All the world gaped when they read the epitome of Reuben Waldershare's will, and that he left a million and a half, and to his wife nothing but a pittance and her personal belongings." "Then—then——" stammered the parson's daughter, "I'm afraid—she must have been foolish?" "If you mean that she flirted—no, never, unless there was something to gain by it. But she is one of those what I call trampling women, who are determined to get all the good out of life—no matter who suffers." "My dear Mrs. Fitzjohn," said Deep Voice, and in that voice there was a loud note of indignation, "Lola Hargreaves was never like _this_. She sacrificed herself entirely for her family, as I've told you. Mr. Waldershare helped her father, and saved him from disgrace—saved the estates, too. I was her bridesmaid," speaking as if this alone were a certificate of virtue. "And I never saw anyone look so white in my life. Oh yes, she sacrificed herself—we all felt that." "Sacrificed herself for—herself," retorted Pink Gown, vindictively, "I'm afraid she must be greatly changed since you knew her." "I do not see why she should." "Her one passion is gambling."