She laughed cheerily, tapping me on the cheek with her glove. She was always petting and caressing me; and, I believe, considered me a sort of big baby exclusively her own property. "But his taking a house looks suspicious," I said, willing to be more convinced. "Not a bit of it," said Miss Pimpernell, sturdily. "Why, if Monsieur Parole d'Honneur took a house, would that be any reason for _his_ getting married? Ah, I know, Frank, who has put all this nonsense in your head! It is that gossiping old Shuffler. I'll give him a lecture when I next catch him," and she shook her fist comically in the air, to the intense wonderment of Miss Spight, who was crossing the road. "But, mind, I didn't tell you so, Miss Pimpernell. Don't tell him that I repeated what he said?" "Stuff and nonsense," she said. "Why, he'll tell everybody he meets the news in confidence, just the same as he did you. I'll give him a good wigging, I tell you! Mr Mawley is not going to be married in a hurry; and if he is, not to the young person you think, Master Frank." "I did not mention anybody, Miss Pimpernell," I said, in confusion; for, her keen black eyes seemed to penetrate into my very heart, and search out my secret fears. She looked very sagacious. "Ah! Frank, you did not _say_ anything; but your looks betrayed you. So _that's_ the reason why the report of the curate's marriage affected you so, is it? But you needn't blush, my dear boy! You need not blush! _I_ will not tell tales out of school; so you may set your mind at rest. It is not, however, as you think, Frank. Cheer up; and good-bye, my dear boy. I must be trotting off now, or my poor blind woman will think I'm never coming to read to her." And off she went, leaving me much happier than old Shuffler had done. Confound him! What did he mean, with his cock-and-a-bull story? On reaching Lady Dasher's house, however, the house-agent's rumour was, to my great distress, confirmed; and, that in the most authoritative manner. It must be true then, in spite of Miss Pimpernell's denial! My lady was in one of her most morbid and melancholy moods, too, which did not help to mend matters. I praised her fuchsias on entering; but even this homage to her favourite hobby failed to rouse her. She had heard that Mrs Clyde had some of the most beautiful pelargonia; and what were _her_ paltry flowers in comparison? Alas! she was poor, and could only afford a few miserable fuchsias to decorate her drawing-room--or rather the better to exhibit its poverty! If her poor, dear papa had been alive, things of course would have been very different; and she could have had petunias, or orchids, or any of the rarest hot-house flowers she pleased; but, now, she was poor, although proud, and could not afford them like that rich parvenue. How, good things always seemed given to those who are above their need!