"Thank you," I answer gayly, though secretly I am enraged at Marmaduke's look and tone. "Thank you very much, Mr. Thornton. I consider myself fortunate in having secured your good opinion. But, Marmaduke"--addressing him with the utmost coolness--"how uncivil you can be! I say nothing of my own feelings I know I am hopelessly wicked; but your guests, what must they think? Take Lady Blanche, for instance: is she not looking the very picture of innocence, though no doubt speechless with indignation? Surely you will exonerate _her?_." "No, not even Blanche," replies Marmaduke; but even as he condemns her he bends upon her one of his very sweetest smiles. "I am the more pleased that you do not," says her ladyship, in her low, soft tones, returning his glance fourfold. "Even if it were possible, I would not be altogether good. Perfection in any shape is the one thing of which we most tire." "The day is clearing; the rain has almost ceased," announces Lord Chandos, solemnly, at this moment. I spring to my feet. "No!" cry I, "you don't _mean_ it?" "I am almost sure I do," replies he, sententiously And there, indeed, amid, the clouds as I run to look at them, shines out a dazzling piece of blue sky that grows and widens as I gaze. "It still wants a quarter to one," I say, rapidly. "We will have lunch at once--no matter whether we eat it or not--and then we shall start for Warminister, and I shall see my rink after all. But first I must go to the gardens. Sir Mark"--in a coquettishly appealing tone, casting at him a very friendly glance from my gray-blue eyes--"will _you_ come with me and take care of me as far as the gates? I have something _very_ particular to say to--Cummins." I make the little pause maliciously, and raise my long lashes just so much as permits me to obtain a glimpse of Marmaduke. He is talking pleasantly to Lady Blanche, and evidently means me to understand that he is ignorant of my conduct. But I can see a frown on his forehead and certain lines about his mouth that tell me plainly he has both seen and heard and condemned, and I am satisfied. "I shall be delighted," says Sir Mark, with prudent coldness, and together we leave the room. --- An hour later; lunch is over, and I am rushing up the stairs to don my walking-attire. On the topmost landing stands Bebe, already dressed and about to descend. As I meet her gaze it arrests me. Surely some expression that closely resembles woe characterizes her face. Her eyebrows are slightly elevated, her lips at the corners curving downwards; her cheeks are innocent of nature's rouge; a suspicious pinkness rests upon her lids. Dear--dear--_dear!_ is there nothing but trouble in this world? I, of course, am wretched--that goes without telling--but pretty, bright, _piquante_ Bebe, must she too be miserable? What untoward thing can have occurred to bring that wistful look into her eyes? Turning to my maid, who is following me at a respectful distance, I speak aloud:--