"I don't suppose I should," replies Sir Mark, rather bluntly, as it seems to me, without turning his head in her direction. There is a moment's rather awkward pause, and then her ladyship laughs lightly, and, crossing the room, sits down by Bebe Beatoun. Her laugh is an unpleasant one, and jars upon me painfully. Her very manner of rising and leaving me alone with Sir Mark has something in it so full of insolent meaning that for the instant I hate her. She makes me feel I have said something foolish--something better left unsaid, though thoroughly unmeant. I color, bite my lip, and, without another word to my companion, who is looking black as night, I go out through the open window. So for the second time the little thorn enters into my heart and pricks me gently. A seed is sown that bears, me bitter fruit. CHAPTER XX. Nobody seems to mind me in the least (as a hindrance to their rather open flirtations), though, with the exception of Lady Blanche, all my guests appear prepossessed in my favor. I am no good at all as a _chaperon_--looking at that necessary evil in the light of a guardian of morals--as no one, I feel utterly positive, would listen to a word of advice given by me, even had I the courage to speak that word, which I feel sure I have not. "Tell you why I like you so much," says Bebe to me, one day, with charming candor (we have become great friends by this time); "you have so little of the married woman about you. You don't look the thing at all. Nobody would feel in the least put out if _you_ caught them doing anything, even a little bit _fi-fi_. You'd be afraid to scold, and you are too good-natured to 'peach.' Now there's mamma; _her_ eyes strike terror to the hearts of the girls she _chaperons_. Only let her catch you with your hand in the possession of any Detrimental, however delightful, and it is all up with you half an hour later." "But I suppose your mother is right. I shall remember what you say, and take her as a model from this day forth." "It isn't _in_ you. You would make a horrible mess of it; and you are infinitely nicer as you are. A strong stare is a necessary ingredient, and you don't possess that. You should be able to wither with a look. I hate being scolded, and I would back mamma, once started, to hold her own against any of those Billingsgate ladies one hears of. I assure you the amount of vituperation our night brougham has concealed about its person is enough, one would think, to turn the color of its cloth. No doubt that is why it requires doing up so very often." "You don't seem any the better for all the indignation." "No, that is just it. That shows the folly of wasting so much valuable breath. I am a born flirt, and as such I hope I'll die. There! that is extra naughty, is it not? So, out of respect for you, I will unsay it, and hope instead I may depart this life a calm and decorous matron." "Do you know I never had a flirtation in my life?" I say, almost regretfully.