"Yes, I was here all the time," I cry, imploringly, "and I heard every word. I was lying on this sofa, and nothing escaped me. Of course you will never forgive me for it, but indeed I did not mean to listen." "Oh, Phyllis?" There is such a world of reproach in her tone that I become distracted. I move towards her and break into a speech of the most incoherent description, my words tailing from me with the rapidity of desperation. "Yes, it is true," I say. "You may look at me as if you hated me, but what was I to do? When first you came in I was in a dozy, half sleepy sort of state, and not until you and Chandos were in the very middle of your discussion did I fully awake to the horrors of my situation. Had I declared myself then, it surely would have been worse; and, besides, I hoped, I believed you would have been kind to him at the end, and dreaded lest my unexpected appearance should put a stop to his proposal. However"--pathetically--"I suppose you will never forgive me." "Oh, Phyllis, it is all over now!" is poor Bebe's unlooked-for reply, as she throws herself into my arms, with a burst of grief. She is forgetful of all but her trouble. How paltry a thing in comparison with it is my small misdemeanor! "No, no," I reply, soothingly, patting the back of her neck, which is all I can get at. "Remember the very last thing he said--that it would be 'impossible' to forget you." "Ah! so he said. But when he has time to reflect will see how cold and detestable were my words. He will be glad of his escape from any one so unloving. I myself wonder now, Phyllis, how I could have so spoken to him." "I could have killed you as I listened," I say, vindictively. "How you brought yourself to behave so badly to the dear fellow is more than I can understand. And he looked so nice all the time, and was so delightfully in earnest! Oh, I know I would have given in long before he had time to say one-half what he said to you. Bebe, what made you so cold? I could have gone in and shaken you with all my heart." "I wish you had," replies she, dolefully. "Yet, perhaps things are better as they are. At all events, he cannot think meanly of me. I have shown him that, whatever else I may be, I am not a mere money-lover." "Well, for all that, I think it a foolish thing to cut off one's nose to vex one's face," return I, with much truth and more vulgarity. "I am not vexing any one," says Bebe. "Yes, you are. You meant to vex Lord Chandos, and you succeeded. And you are vexing yourself dreadfully. And all for what? For the miserable thing called pride. Now, I never had any of that troublesome commodity about me, and I believe the want of it adds greatly to one's enjoyment." "Had I accepted him I would have been wretched," murmurs she, with a sigh. Then, breaking down again: "And now that I have refused him, I am wretched too; so there is no comfort anywhere."