“Many little women say that,” answered Guy; “it’s a way they have.  Which is it, now?”

Charley pointed out a small, plump, rather pretty blonde, with long ringlets, and light, laughing blue eyes.  It seemed the lady’s reminiscences were well founded, for in five minutes Livingstone and she were talking like old friends.

In the course of the evening I found myself near Miss Bellasys.  This time she did me the honor to address me, and soon began asking me more questions than I could answer, even had she waited a reply.  Did I like Kerton Manor?  Had there been many agreeable people there yet?  Not any remarkably so!  She was surprised at that.  Miss Raymond was there en permanence, of course?  She was such a favorite with her (Flora), and with her cousin too, she thought.  Was Mr. Livingstone always playing with his uncle, and always losing?  She supposed he liked losing—­at play.  Did I know the lady in pink, with twenty-five flowers in her hair?  She had counted them.  Yes, that was her husband, the stout man looking uncomfortable, in the corner—­an old friend of Mr. Livingstone’s?  He had so many old friends; but he did not always talk to them for a whole evening without intermission.  Ah! she was going to sing; that is, if Mr. Livingstone had quite finished with her, and would let her go.  Little women with pink cheeks and dresses always did sing, and never had any voice.

I don’t know how many more questions she put to me in the same quiet, clear tones; but just then I happened to look down on the handkerchief she held in her hand, and I saw a long rent in its broad Valenciennes border that I am very sure was not there an hour ago; for Flora’s toilette, morning and evening, was faultless to a degree.

I had hardly time to remark this when Guy lounged up to us.  My companion’s dark eyes were more eloquent than her lips, which quivered slightly as she said,

“I wonder you have not more consideration.  A new arrival in the county, and compromised irretrievably!  Look at Mr. Stafford now.”

“The husband?” Guy said, with intense disdain; “the husband’s helpless.  He may sharpen his—­tusks, but he’ll never come to battle.  How good and great you are!  It is quite refreshing to hear your strictures on innocent amusements.  But I beg you will speak of that lady with due respect; she is the first—­yes, positively the first—­woman I ever loved.”

“Monseigneur, que d’honneur!” Flora said, curling her haughty lip.

“It is true,” Guy went on.  “At a children’s ball, about fifteen years ago, I met my fate.  She was in white muslin, with a velvet bodice (Flora shuddered visibly); for a year after I pictured to myself the angels in no other attire, and now—­years vitiate one’s tastes so—­I can fancy nothing but a jockey in ‘black body and white sleeves.’  I suppose she was very pretty; let us hope so; it is my only excuse for being enchanted in ten minutes,