In a very short time the storm passes, and Bebe, raising her face, covers it with her hands.
"I have not been crying," she says, with wilful vehemence; "you must not think I have. If you do, I will never be your friend again. How dare you say I shed tears for any man?"
"I did not say it, Bebe. I will never say it," I return, earnestly.
She puts her bare arms around my neck and lays her head upon my shoulder in such a position that I cannot see her face, and so remains, staring thoughtfully into the fire.
"I know you will be very angry with me," I say presently, "but I must say it. Perhaps you will marry him some time."
"No, never, never. Do you think it. I refused him when he was poor; I would not accept him now he is rich. How could you ever imagine it? Even were he to ask me again (which, believe me, is the most unlikely thing that could happen), I would give him the same answer. He may think me heartless; he shall not think me so mean a thing as that."
"If he loves you he will think no bad of you."
"You do well to say 'if'. I don't suppose he does love me now. He did once." Her arms tighten around me, although I think for the moment she has forgotten me and everything and is looking back upon the past. After a little while she says, again, "Yes, he did love me once."
"And does still. I am sure of it. His whole face changed when he saw you this evening. I remarked it, though I am not generally famous for keen observation. It is impossible he can have forgotten you, Bebe."
"Of course. There are so few pretty people in the world," with a smile. "The change you saw in him tonight, Phyllis, was probably surprise; or perhaps disgust, at finding himself so unexpectedly thrown again into my society. He did not once address me during the evening."