At this Sir Maurice pokes the fire, until it flames well up the chimney.

“Ah!  I like that,” says Tita.  She slips from her chair to the hearthrug—­a beautiful white soft Persian one—­and sits upon it, as it were, one snowflake on another.  “How nice it is!” says she, staring at the sparks roaring up the chimney; “such a companion!” She leans back and rests her head against Rylton’s knees.  “Now, go on,” she says comfortably.

“Go on?”

“Yes.  We were saying something about friends.  That we should be friends all our lives.  So we shall be.  Eh?”

“I don’t know.”  Rylton bends over her, and, suddenly laying his hand under her chin, lifts her face so that he can see it.  “You mean that I shall be your friend, and you mine.”

“Yes.  Yes, of course.”

“You have other friends, however.  And I don’t like that.”

“What!  Is one to have only one friend?” She wriggles her face out of his hands, and moving her body as she reclines upon the white rug, so turns herself that she comes face to face with him.  “Only one!” says she, smiling.  She flings her arms across his knees, and looks up at him.

“Is not one enough?” He is looking at her very earnestly.  How lovely she is!  What a strange charm lies in her deep eyes!  And her smile—­

    “The smile that rests to play
    Upon her lip, foretells
    That musical array
    Tricks her sweet syllables.”

“Oh, it would be a poor world with only one friend,” says she, shaking he head.

“You want two?” His brow is darkening again.

“More than that.  I want you, and Margaret, and——­”

“Hescott?”

It is not so much that she has hesitated as he has not given her time to speak.

“Well, yes—­Tom,” says she.  “He is my friend!”

“The best of all?” She is not looking at him now, so does not see the expression in his eyes.  He is listening breathlessly for her answer, but she knows nothing.  She is gazing idly, happily into the fire.

“At present,” says she slowly.  Then once again she leans across his knees, and looks up at him.  “You know Tom is very fond of me—­he loves me, I think.”

Here Rylton lays his hands upon her wrists, grasping them hard.

“He loves you.  He has told you so?”

“No.  Why should he?” He lets her hands go.  “I know it.  He has loved me so many years; and perhaps—­in many years”—­she comes closer to him, and putting up one soft little hand, lays it on his cheek, and tries to turn his face to hers—­"you will love me too!”

Sir Maurice springs to his feet, and, catching her hands, lifts her forcibly to hers.

“There, go,” says he, as if choking.  “Is that how you speak to him?"

“To him?”

She stands back from him—­not trembling, but with a terrible wonder in her eyes.

“To Hescott——­ There—­go.”