lack frock, which she told him had been the easiest thing to carry.
This was in answer to his question, "How had she come? Had the Contessa
sent her?" Bice clapped her hands with pleasure, and recounted how she
had run away.

"The news were always bad, more bad; and Milady all alone. At length the
time came when I could bear it no longer. I love him, my little Tom; and
Milady has always been kind, so kind, more kind than any one. Nobody has
been kind to me like her, and also you, Sir Tom; and baby that was my
darling," the girl said.

"God bless you, my dear," said Sir Tom; "but," he added, "you should not
have done it. You should have remembered the infection."

Bice made a little face of merry disdain and laughed aloud. "Do I care
for infection? Love is more strong than a fever. And then," she added,
"I had a purpose too."

Sir Tom was delighted with her girlish confidences about her frock and
her purpose. "Something very grave, I should imagine, from those looks."

"Oh, it is very grave," said Bice, her countenance changing. "You know I
am _fiancee_. There has been a good deal said to me of Lord Montjoie;
sometimes that he was not wise, what you call silly, not clever, not
good to have to do with. That he is not clever one can see; but what
then? The clever they do not always please. Others say that he is a
great _parti_, and all that is desirable. Myself," she added with an air
of judicial impartiality, "I like him well enough; even when he does not
please me, he amuses. The clever they are not always amusing. I am
willing to marry him since it is wished, otherwise I do not care much.
For there is, you know, plenty of time, and to marry so soon--it is a
disappointment, it is no longer exciting. So it is not easy to know
distinctly what to do. That is what you call a dilemma," Bice said.

"It is a serious dilemma," said Sir Tom, much amused and flattered too.
"You want me then to give you my advice----"

"No," said Bice, which made his countenance suddenly blank, "not advice.
I have thought of a way. All say that it is almost wicked, at least very
wrong to come here (in the Tauchnitz it would be miserable to be afraid,
and so I think), and that the fever is more than everything. Now for me
it is not so. If Lord Montjoie is of my opinion, and if he thinks I am
right to come, then I shall know that, though he is not clever---- Yes;
that is my purpose. Do you think I shall be right?"

"I see," said Sir Tom, thou