"No? really! How absurd!" says Bebe, bursting into a much-amused laugh. "That is just what makes you the curious, dear, darling, little child you are. But you need not be so poverty-stricken any longer unless you please, as any one can see how _epris_ with you is Sir Mark Gore." "Nonsense!" cry I, blushing furiously. "How can you say anything so untrue? I have known him this ever so long; he is quite an old friend." "And a _fast_ friend," says Bebe, laughing again at her own wit. "Having waited so long you do right to begin your campaign with a seasoned veteran." "You must not say such things: if you do I shall rouse myself and assert my authority as a very dragon among _chaperons_; and then where will you and Captain Jenkins and Master Chips be?" "No, don't," entreats Bebe, pretending to be frightened. "As you now are you are perfection: were you to change you would not be Phyllis Carrington at all. When _I_ marry I intend taking you as an example, and so make myself dear to the hearts of all my spinster friends." "And when will that be, Bebe?" A shade crosses and darkens her face. For a moment she looks sad; then it disappears, and she laughs gayly. "Never, probably. I don't get the chance. Generally when I pay my autumn visits, I live in a state of constant dread of being pounced upon by officious matrons, just as I am going in for an hour of _thorough_ enjoyment with a man who has not a penny on earth besides his pay. But here it is different. _You_ would never pounce, my Phyllis, would you? You would make a delightful clitter-clatter, with those little high-heeled shoes of yours, long before you turned the corner; there is nothing mean or prowling about you. Phyllis, is all that hair really your own? I won't believe it till I see it. Let me pull it down, and do it up again for you in a new style, will you? I am tremendously good at hair-dressing, really. Harry says I am better than her French maid. When all trades fail, and I am a lonely old maid, I shall bind myself to a barber." With this she pulls my hair all about my shoulders, and makes me endure untold tortures for at least three-quarters of an hour. --- Meantime Dora is improving the shining hours with Sir George Ashurst. She is making very fast and likely running, that looks as if it meant to make the altar-rails its goal. As for her victim, he has neither eyes nor tongue nor ears for any one but Dora, and success lends enchantment to my sister's face and form. Always pretty, she has gained from the excitement of the contest an animation hitherto unknown, that adds considerably to her charms.