y of the suggestion. Lucy was so much startled by this view of the
subject that she made no reply.

"There is no question of working," said Bice with decision, "neither for
women, neither for men. That is not in our world. But if I am only
pretty, no more," she added, "what will become of me? It is not known. I
shall follow the Contessa as before. I will be useful to her, and
afterwards---- I prefer not to think of that. In the meantime I am young.
I do not wish for anything. It is all amusing. I become weary of the
band playing, that is true; but then sometimes it plays not badly, and
there is something always to laugh at. Afterwards, if I marry, then I
can do as I like," the girl said.

Lucy gave her another look of surprised awe, for it was really with that
feeling that she regarded this strange little philosopher. But she did
not feel herself able to pursue the subject with so enlightened a
person. She said: "How very well you speak English. You have scarcely
any accent, and the Contessa has none at all. I was afraid she would
speak only French, and my French is so bad."

"I have always spoken English all my life. When the Contessa is angry
she says I am English all over; and she--she is of no country--she is
of all countries; we are what you call vagabonds," the girl cried, with
a laugh. She said it so calmly, without the smallest shadow of shame or
embarrassment, that Lucy could only gaze at her and could not find a
word to say. Was it true? It was evident that Bice at least believed so,
and was not at all afraid to say it. This conversation took place, as
has been said, in the picture gallery, where Lady Randolph and her young
visitor had first found a ground of amity. The rainy weather had
continued, and this place had gradually become the scene of a great deal
of intercourse between the young mistress of the house and her guest.
They scarcely spoke to each other in the evening. But in the morning
after the game of romps with little Tom, by which Bice indemnified
herself for the absence of other society, Lucy would join the party, and
after the child had been carried off for his mid-day sleep, the others
left behind would have many a talk. To Lucy the revelations thus made
were more wonderful than any romance--so wonderful that she did not half
take in the strange life to which they gave a clue, nor realise how
perfectly right was Bice's description of herself and her patroness.
They were vagabonds, as she sai