“Spare whose blushes, my good friend?  The girl isn’t in the room.  Do you think I’d be so indelicate as to mention the sacred subject of the wedding before the bride-elect?  No, no, Beatrice isn’t by, unless she is hiding behind one of the window curtains.”

At the word Beatrice Mrs. Bell felt her spirit sink down to zero.  She had an insane desire to take Mrs. Butler by main force, and drag her out of the room.  Poor Matty’s blushes changed to pallor, and her hand shook as she pessed Miss Peters her creamless tea.  Mr. Jones also, who had been listening to the conversation in a half-hearted way suddenly felt himself turning very rigid and stiff, and the eyes which he fixed on Daisy Jenkins took a glassy stare as though he were looking through that young lady into futurity.

Mrs. Butler liked to tell her news with effect and she felt now that she had made a profound sensation.

“Good-bye,” she said, holding out her hand.  “I thought I’d drop in and tell you, as being old friends, but I must go on at once to congratulate dear Mrs. Meadowsweet.  There’s no doubt at all; Bee is engaged, and we saw them just now in a boat at the other side of the harbor, all alone, and making love as hard as they could.  It’s a pretty match, and she’s a fine girl.  Good-bye, Mrs. Bell; come, Maria.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bell.  “Yes.  Not that I believe a word of the story—­you didn’t tell us the name of the—­the future bridegroom—­not that I believe a word.”

“Oh, yes, you do believe.  Didn’t I mention the bridegroom’s name?  Well, somehow I thought that went without saying.  He’s Captain Bertram, of course.  Good-bye, Matty.  Come, Maria.”

The two ladies disappeared, and the Bells and their other guests were left to face each other, and discuss the news.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THAT FICKLE MATTY.

“Well, doctor, and where are you off to now?” The speaker was the doctor’s wife.  “I do think it’s unreasonable of people,” continued this good lady, “to send for you just when you are sitting down to your comfortable breakfast, and you so particular as you are about your coffee.”

“Who is it, Mary Anne?  Who’s the messenger from?” turning to the maid-servant, who stood in a waiting attitude half-in, half-out of the door.

“Oh, it’s only the Bells.  You needn’t hurry off to the Bells, Tom.”

“As well they as another,” retorted Dr. Morris “Tell the messenger I’ll be round directly, Mary Anne.  Now, what’s the matter, old lady?  Why should you fidget yourself, and have such a spiteful tone when the Bells are mentioned?”