After all, Maurice might have asked her again.  He danced a great deal with Mrs. Bethune towards the end of the evening, and how charming he looked when dancing!

She rests her arms—­soft, naked arms, round and white as a child’s—­upon the dressing-table and wonders.  Wonders if that old story—­the story her mother-in-law had told her of Maurice and Mrs. Bethune—­was really true.  Maurice did not look like that—­like a man who would be dishonest.  Oh no!  It is not true—­that horrid story!

Her eyes light up again; she goes back again to her hair, the arrangement of which, on account of its length, is difficult.  She piles it now far up on her head, and sticks little diamond pins into it.  She almost laughs aloud.  She looks like a Japanese young woman.  And it’s very pretty, too—­she does look nice in this way.  What a pity nobody can see her!  And with this little new white dressing-gown, too!  Such a little dream of a thing!

Where’s Maurice?  Surely he must have come up by this time.  Some of the men had gone into the smoking-room on their return; but it is so late—­with the dawn breaking; perhaps Maurice has come up.

She crosses a little passage and goes to the door leading into his room, and knocks lightly; no answer.  She knocks again, more impatiently this time, and as still only silence follows her attempt, she opens the door and steps on tiptoe into the room.

It is lit by two or more lamps, and at the end of it, close to a hanging curtain, stands Maurice in his trousers and shirt, having evidently just flung off his evening coat.

“Oh, here you are!” cries she with open delight.  “I was afraid you hadn’t come up yet, and I wanted to show myself to you.  Look at my hair!” She pulls out the skirts of her dainty loose gown and dances merrily up to him.  “Don’t I look lovely?” cries she, laughing.

Rylton has turned; he is looking at her; his eyes seem to devour her—­more with anger than delight, however.  And yet the beauty of her, in spite of him, enters into his heart.  How sweet she is, standing there with her loose gown in her pretty uplifted hands, and the lace flounces of her petticoat showing in front!  She had not fastened this new delight in robes across her neck, and now the whiteness of her throat and neck vies with the purity of the gown itself.

    “He looked on her and found her fair,
    For all he had been told.”

Yet a very rage of anger against her still grows within his heart.

“What brought you here?” asks he sharply, brutally.

She drops her pretty gown.  She looks at him as if astonished.

“Why—­because”—­she is moving backwards towards the door, her large eyes fixed on him—­“because I wanted you to look at me—­to see how nice I am.”

“Others have looked too,” says he.  “There, go.  Do you think I am a fool?”

At that Tita’s old spirit returns to her.  She stands still and gives him a quick glance.