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An hour later; lunch is over, and I am rushing up the stairs to don my walking-attire. On the topmost landing stands Bebe, already dressed and about to descend.
As I meet her gaze it arrests me. Surely some expression that closely resembles woe characterizes her face. Her eyebrows are slightly elevated, her lips at the corners curving downwards; her cheeks are innocent of nature's rouge; a suspicious pinkness rests upon her lids.
Dear—dear—dear! is there nothing but trouble in this world? I, of course, am wretched—that goes without telling—but pretty, bright, piquante Bebe, must she too be miserable? What untoward thing can have occurred to bring that wistful look into her eyes?
Turning to my maid, who is following me at a respectful distance, I speak aloud:—
"Martha, I will dispense with your services this afternoon. Miss Beatoun is here, and will give me any assistance I may require."
So saying, I draw my friend into my room and close my door.
"Now, Bebe, what is it?" I ask, pushing her into a lounging-chair, and beginning a vigorous search for my seal-skin jacket. Martha is a good girl the—best of girls—but she can never put anything in the same place twice running.
"Oh, it is nothing—nothing," answers Bebe, in a tone almost comical in its disgust. "My pride has had a slight fall—my conceit has been a little lowered—no more. I hate myself" (with a petulant stamp of the foot) "for taking it so much to heart; but I do, and that is the fact, and I cannot yet overcome the feeling. If I did not know I must have looked like a foolish culprit all the while, I think I would not so greatly mind; but my color was coming and going in a maddening fashion; and then his tone—so quick—so—-"
"Chandos's tone, I suppose, you mean? But you forget, dear; I know nothing."