"Fancy _your_ seeing anything about me worth admiring!" I reply; but, in spite of my words, my laugh is low and pleased. His tone, though quiet, has a ring of cordiality in it that for some time has been absent. A smile hovers round my lips; I lift my head and am about to make some little, trilling, saucy, honeyed speech, when my eyes fall upon a certain object that lies upon the toilet-table among the numerous other things he had just withdrawn from his pockets. A tiny pale-pink three-cornered note rests, address uppermost, beneath my gaze. "Marmaduke Carrington, Esq."--no more. How well I knew it, the detestable, clear, beautiful writing! I feel my lips compress, my cheeks grow ashy white. Turning abruptly, stung to the quick, I leave the room. "Will you not take the bottle with you?" calls out Marmaduke, and I answer, in rather a stifled voice, "No, thank you," and shut the door between us hastily. Oh that _that_ was all that separated us! I feel half mad with outraged pride and passion. That she should write him _billets-doux_ in my own house, that _he_ should receive them and treasure them, seems to me in my excited state; the very basest treachery. Making fierce love beneath my very eyes, so careless of my feelings, or so convinced of my stupidity, as to take no pains to conceal their double-dealing! I grow almost reckless, and remember with some sort of satisfaction that at least it is in my power to wound him in turn and her, too, after what I have overheard this evening. Although his vaunted love for me--if ever there--is now gone, I can still touch him where his honor is concerned. I rub my pale face until the color returns to it, I bite my quivering lips until they gleam like crimson berries, and, going downstairs, for the first time in my life I let the demon of coquetry rise and hold full sway within my breast, while I go in for an open and decided flirtation with Sir Mark Gore. Yet how miserable I am. How wretched are the moments, when I give myself room for thought! I note Marmaduke's dark frown, as, with flushed cheeks and gloaming, sparkling eyes, I encourage and play gayly to Sir Mark's nonsense. I see Bebe's surprised glance and Harriet's pained one. I watch with exultation the bitter expression that clouds Lady Blanche's brow. I see everything around me, and long--with a feverish longing--for the evening to wear to an end. At length comes the welcome hour of release. We have all wished each other good-night. The men have retired to their smoking-room, the women to their bedroom fires and the service of their maids. Martha having pulled my hair to pieces and brushed it vigorously, I give her leave to seek her own couch, and, with a set purpose in my mind, get through the remainder of my night toilet without assistance.