"No; if you mean the summer before last, he stayed with the Leslies," I admit, somewhat unwillingly. "I met him several times." "What! you knew him, then, before your marriage?" cries Bebe, with surprise. "Very slightly. Once or twice he called with the Leslies, and when he returned to town he sent me an exquisite little volume of Tennyson; which delicate attention on his part so enraged papa, that he made me return the book, and forbade my writing to thank Sir Mark for it. So ended our acquaintance." "Oh, _now_ I have the secret; _now_ I understand why Blanche detests you so," exclaims Bebe, clapping her hands merrily. "So he lost his heart to you, did he? And madame heard all about it, and was rightly furious? Oh, how she must have ground her pretty white teeth in impotent rage on discovering how she was outdone by a simple village maiden! I vow it is a tale that Offenbach's music might adorn." "How absurd you are, Bebe! How you jump to conclusions! I assure you Sir Mark left our neighborhood as heart-whole as when he came to it." "Well, I won't dispute the point; but whether it was your fault or not, when Blanche and he again met all was changed. His love had flown, no one knew whither, he still continued to pay her visits, it is true, but not every day and all day long. He still attended the balls to which she went, but _not_ as her slave. Blanche fretted and fumed herself thin at his defection; but it was no use: the spell was broken, and Mark was not to be recalled. You will think me a terrible scandal-monger," says Bebe, with a smile, "but when one hears a thing perpetually discussed one feels an interest in it at last in spite of oneself. You look shocked, Phyllis. I suppose there is no such thing in this quiet country as polite crime?" "I don't know about the politeness, but of course there is plenty of crime. For instance, last assizes Bill Grimes, out gardener's son at Summerleas, was transported for poaching; and eight months ago John Haddon, the black-smith, fired at his landlord; and it is a well-known fact that Mr. De Vere beats his wife dreadfully every now and then; but there are no such stories as the one you have just told to me. I think it disgraceful. What is the use of it all? How can it end?" "Sometimes in an elopement; sometimes, as in Blanche's case, in nothing. You must understand she is perfectly respectable, and that the very nicest people receive her with open arms. But then none of them would be in the least surprised if any morning she was missing. And, indeed, sometimes I wish she _would_ like somebody well enough to quit the country with him. Anything would be decenter than these perpetual intrigues." "Oh, no, Bebe; nothing could be so bad as that. Little as I care for her, I hope I shall never hear such evil tidings of her."