An unrestrainable craving to learn all the particulars of Marmaduke's former attachment to Lady Blanche Going (as described by Mark Gore) seizes me; and Bebe being of all people the one most likely to satisfy my curiosity I determine to seek her and gain from her what knowledge I can. She is, besides, the only one of whom I would make such an inquiry; therefore to her room I prepare to go. I hastily draw on a pale-blue cashmere dressing-gown, prettily trimmed with satin quilting of the same shade, and substitute blue slippers for the black ones I have been wearing during the evening. My hair hangs in rich chestnut masses far below my waist; two or three stray rippling locks wander wantonly across my forehead. A heavy blue cord and tassel, confining my gown, completes my costume. Leaving my own room noiselessly, I reach Bebe's, and knock softly on the door. She too has dismissed her maid, and is sitting before the fire in an attitude that bespeaks reverie. Whatever her thoughts, however, she puts them from her on my entrance, and comes forward to greet me, the gay, bright, _debonnaire_ Bebe of every day. "I am so glad you have come!" she says, running to take both my hands and lead me to the fire. "A few minutes conversation at this hour of the night is worth _hours_ of the day. And, oh, Phyllis, how pretty you look!" "Nonsense!" return I, mightily pleased, nevertheless; and, going over to the cheval glass, I proceed to examine myself with a critical eye. "_Wonderfully_ pretty," repeats Bebe, with emphasis. "My dearest Phyllis, you should _always_ wear blue cashmere, and let your hair fall down your back just so. You look exactly fourteen, and very charming." "Well, even at the best of times I was never considered pretty," declared I, modestly. "Now and then, when wearing a new dress or that, I may have appeared good-looking; but even Marmaduke never told me I was _that_." "Never told you you were _pretty!_" cries Bebe, in a voice of horror. "Never told you you were the sweetest and loveliest creature upon earth? What a _miserable_ lover!" It would be impossible to describe the amount of scorn she throws into her manner. Her words, though I know they are spoken in jest, coming thus hotly on my new suspicions, rankle sorely. "I don't see that his telling me a lie would have done any good," I expostulate, somewhat warmly, feeling passionately aggrieved at the thought that he has fallen short in his wooing. Surely once, if for ever so little a time, I was all in all to him.