“Y-es,” says Tita slowly, as if thinking, and then again, “Yes!” with decision.  “When the old attachment if of no use any longer, and when there is someone else.”

“But if there was an old attachment, and”—­Hescott’s face is a little pale in the moonlight—­“and practically—­no one else—­how then?”

“Eh?”

“I mean, if”—­he comes closer to her—­“Tita, if you had known a man who loved you before you were married, and if when you did marry—­”

“But she didn’t marry him at all,” interrupts Tita.  “He died—­or something—­I forget what.”

“Yes; but think.”

“There is nothing to think about.  He died—­so stupid of him; and now she is making one of the nicest men I know miserable, all because she has made up her mind to be wretched for ever!  So stupid of her!"

“Has it ever occurred to you that there is such a thing as love?” asks Hescott, looking at her with a sudden frown.

“Oh, I’ve heard of it,” with a little shrug of her pretty shoulders; “but I don’t believe in it.  It’s a myth! a fable!”

“And yet”—­with an anger that he can hardly hide, seeing her standing there so young, so fair, so debonnair before him—­so insensible to the passion for her that is stirring within his heart—­“and yet your friend, Miss Knollys, is giving up her life, you say, to the consecration of this myth.”

Tita nods.

“Yes; isn’t she silly!  I told you she was very foolish.”

“You assure me honestly that you don’t believe in love?”

“Not a bit,” says Tita.  “It’s all nonsense!  Now come in—­I want to dance.  And remember—­remember, Tom, you have promised not to breathe a word about what I have told you.”

“I promise,” says Hescott in a slow sort of way; he is thinking.

When they reach the dancing-room they find it, comparatively speaking, empty, save for a few enthusiastic couples who are still careering round it.

“Supper must be on,” says Hescott.  “Come and have something.”

* * * * *

As they enter the supper-room several people look at them.  To Rylton, who is standing near Mrs. Bethune, these glances seem full of impertinent inquiry.  In reality they mean nothing, except admiration of his wife.  To-night Lady Rylton has been pronounced by most of those present the prettiest woman in the room.  Hescott pilots his charming companion to a low lounge in a corner of the room, a place at any of the tables being impossible to get.  But Rylton decides that he has taken her to that secluded spot to make more conspicuous his flirtation with her; and she—­she seems only too ready to help him in his plan.

The fact that he is frowning heavily is conveyed to him by a voice at his elbow.

_ “Don’t_ look so intense—­so like a thirteenth-century conspirator!” says Mrs. Bethune.  Her eyes are full of laughter and mischief—­there is something of triumph in them too.  “What does it matter, after all?”