"Don't make yourself unhappy by imagining absurdities," says Bebe, quietly, apropos of nothing that I could see, and without looking at me; "and take care of Blanche; she would make a dangerous enemy. Not that I think she could harm you; but sometimes her soft eyes betray her, and she looks as if she could cheerfully stab you. To me it is a little comedy, and I enjoy it immensely. I can see she would do anything to bring back Mark to his allegiance, and for that purpose makes love to Marmaduke before his eyes, in the vain hope of rendering him jealous. And"—with a swift shrewd glance at me—"what can poor 'Duke do but pretend to accept her advances and be civil to her?"
I think of the pink billet and of all the other trifles light as air that go far to make me believe the pretense to be a pleasant one for 'Duke, but say nothing. He certainly finds it more than easy to be "civil" to her.
"However, her pains go for naught," continues Bebe: "there is nothing so difficult to re-light as a dead love."
A shadow crosses her piquante face. She draws in her lips and bravely smothers a sigh. A door bangs loudly in the distance.
I start to my feet.
"It must be later than I thought," I say. "The men seem to have tired of their cigars. Good night, dear Bebe."
"Good-night," she murmurs, and with a hurried embrace we part.
I gain the corridor, down one long side of which I must pass to get to my own room. Fancying, when half-way, that I hear a noise behind me, I stop to glance back and ascertain the cause; but no capped or frisetted head pushes itself out of any door to mark my doings. Some one of the indescribable noises belonging to the night had misled me.
Reassured, I turn again—to find myself face to face with Mark Gore.
He is three yards distant from me. His face wears a surprised and somewhat amused expression, that quickly changes to one deeper, as his eyes travel all over my pretty gown, my slippers, and my disordered hair.