“It doesn’t matter a bit. It saved her from being worried, poor thing,—that was the chief point. So long as a thing is done, it doesn’t matter who does it—unless it’s a bad thing. It matters then very much—especially to the person who does it,” Mrs. North added, with a little bitter laugh. “The pain of it”—she stopped again, and went on suddenly, “Tell me more about Mrs. Baines. Where is she?” “I don’t know.” “Have you not seen her lately?” “Not for a long time.” “But what has become of her?” Florence hesitated again. “I cannot tell you.” “Dear lady!” said Mrs. North, her face merry with sudden fun. “You have not quarrelled with her? A Madonna doesn’t quarrel, surely? Oh, how rude I am—but you will forgive me, won’t you?” She got up from the other end of the couch and rang the bell. “Bring some tea,” she said to the servant, “and quickly.” “Don’t have tea for me, please——” Florence began. “Oh yes, yes,” Mrs. North said entreatingly. “I feel, dear Mrs. Hibbert, that we are going to talk scandal—therefore we must have tea. I have had enough scandal lately,” she added, with a sigh, “but still when it isn’t about one’s self it is so exhilarating, as Mrs. Baines would have said; now, please, go on.” “Go on with what?” Mrs. North pulled out a little scented lace handkerchief and twirled it into a ball in her excitement. “About Mrs. Baines. There is some exciting news—I know it; I feel it in the air. Ah, here’s the tea. I will pour it out first, and then, while we drink it, you must tell me all about her. Some sugar and cream?—there, now we look more cosy. Where is the old lady? What have you done with her? You have not locked her up?” she asked quickly. “No,” laughed Florence, thinking how good the tea was, and how pretty were the cups and the little twisted silver spoons. “I have not locked her up.” “And you have really not quarrelled with her?” “No,” answered Florence, a little doubtfully. “Though I sometimes fear that she is angry with me for what she called my lack of sympathy. Really, Mrs. North, I don’t know how to tell you; but the fact is,—she is married again.” “No, no?” cried Mrs. North. “Oh, it’s too lovely! And who is the dear old gentleman?” “It’s a young one,” and Florence laughed, for she could not help being amused. “I don’t know if you ever saw him—Mr. Wimple?” Mrs. North rocked to and fro, with wicked delight, till the last words came; then she grew quite grave. “Oh, but I am sorry,” she said, “for I have seen him; and he didn’t look nice; he looked—rather horrid.” “I am afraid he did,” Florence answered regretfully. “Do tell me all about it”—but the only account that Florence was able to give did not satisfy Mrs. North. “You must have seen something of the love-making beforehand?” she said. “I am afraid I saw nothing of that either,” Florence explained, “for I was in London, and she was at the cottage.”