"Phyllis, you are a dear charitable child, and I like you--it would be impossible for me to say how much. Do you know"--putting her hand on mine--"I have always sneered at the idea of any really sincere attachment existing between women? But since I have known you I have recanted and confessed myself in error. If you were my sister I could not love you better." Contrasting her secretly with meek-eyed Dora, I feel guiltily that to me Bebe is the more congenial of the two. With my natural impulsiveness I throw my arms round her neck and favor her with a warm kiss. "But I am not charitable," goes on Bebe, when she has returned my chaste salute, "and I detest Blanche with all my heart. There is something so sly and sneaking about her. She would do one an injury, if it suited her, even while accepting a kindness at one's hands. Do you know. Phyllis, she is still madly in love with Sir Mark, while I think _he_ is decidedly smitten with you?" My face and throat grow scarlet. "I hope not," I stammer, foolishly. "I am sure of it. He never takes his eyes off you, and at times my lady is absolutely wild. I never noticed it so plainly as this evening; and by the bye, _ma mie_"--very gently and kindly--"I confess it occurred to me--were you flirting with Mark--just a little?" "I don't know what came over me this evening," I reply, petulantly; "I hardly know what I said or did. Something was on my mind and made my actions false. I don't care a bit for Mark Gore, but still I let it seem as if I did." "Don't make yourself unhappy by imagining absurdities," says Bebe, quietly, _apropos_ of nothing that I could see, and without looking at me; "and take care of Blanche; she would make a dangerous enemy. Not that I think she could harm you; but sometimes her soft eyes betray her, and she looks as if she could cheerfully stab you. To me it is a little comedy, and I enjoy it immensely. I can see she would do anything to bring back Mark to his allegiance, and for that purpose makes love to Marmaduke before his eyes, in the vain hope of rendering him jealous. And"--with a swift shrewd glance at me--"what can poor 'Duke do but pretend to accept her advances and be civil to her?" I think of the pink billet and of all the other trifles light as air that go far to make me believe the pretense to be a pleasant one for 'Duke, but say nothing. He certainly finds it more than easy to be "civil" to her. "However, _her_ pains go for naught," continues Bebe: "there is nothing so difficult to re-light as a dead love." A shadow crosses her _piquante_ face. She draws in her lips and bravely smothers a sigh. A door bangs loudly in the distance. I start to my feet. "It must be later than I thought," I say. "The men seem to have tired of their cigars. Good night, dear Bebe." "Good-night," she murmurs, and with a hurried embrace we part.