"What is the mother like? One can hardly fancy Blanche with anything so tender as a mother." "Like a fairy godmother, minus the magic wand and the energy of that famous person. A little old lady with a dark face, and eyes that would be keen and searching but for the discipline she has undergone. She has no opinions and no aims but what are her daughter's; and Blanche rules _her_--as she rules every other member of her household--with a rod of iron." "Poor old creature! What an unhappy age! So you say Marmaduke's admiration for Blanche meant nothing? And she--did she like _him?_" "For 'like' read 'love' I suppose? My dearest Phyllis, have you, who have been so long under the same roof with Blanche, yet to discover how impossible it would be for her to love any one but Blanche Going. Yet stay; I wrong her partly; _once_ she _did_ love, and does so still, I believe." "Whom do you mean?" ask I, bending forward eagerly. "Have you no notion? How surprised you look! You will wonder still more when I tell you the hero of her romance is at present in your house." "Here, in _this_ house!" I stammer. "Yes. No less a person than Mark Gore." So I am right. And jealousy has been at the root of all her ladyship's open hostility towards me! "Any casual observer would never think so," I remark, at last, after a very lengthened pause. "That is because Murk's infatuation has come to an end, and he does not care to renew matters. If you watch him you may see what particular pains he takes to avoid a _tete-a-tete_ with her. And yet there was a time when she had considerable influence over him. He was a constant visitor at her house in town--so constant that at length it began to be mooted about how he had the _entree_ there at all hours and seasons, even when an intimate friend might expect a denial. Then people began to whisper again, and shake their wise heads and pity 'that poor colonel,' and watch eagerly for the _denouement_. "Why did her mother not interfere?" "My dear, have I not already told you what a perfectly drilled old lady is the mother? It would be as much as her life is worth to interfere in any of her daughter's arrangements. She is utterly dependant on Blanche, and, therefore, perforce, a nonentity. She is expected to remain in the house as a useful piece of furniture; and she is also expected to have neither ears nor eyes nor tongue. Besides, it was not a singular case; Mark was only the last on a long list of admirers. My lady could not exist without a _cavalier servente_." "I think it downright abominable," say I, with much warmth. Bebe looks amused. "So do I. But what will you? And in spite of all our thoughts Mark came and went unceasingly. Wherever madame appeared, so did her shadow; at every ball he was in close attendance; until, the season dragging to a close, Blanche went abroad for two months, and Mark went down to this part of the world. To 'Duke, was it?"