When, therefore, Hescott during the evening asked her to go for a ride with him before breakfast next morning, she had said yes quickly—­so quickly, that Hescott foolishly believed she meant more than a readiness to ride in the early morning.  Did she wish to be with him?  A mad hope made his heart warm.

As for Tita—­she thought only of that small revenge.  She would go for a ride with Tom, without telling Maurice one word about it.  She could easily be back in time for breakfast, and no one, therefore, would be annoyed, except Maurice!  It seemed delightful to annoy Maurice!

* * * * *

The little revenge hardly seems so delightful now, however, as she springs from her horse, and running into the hall, followed by Hescott, sees by the clock there that it is just half-past ten.

“Oh! you should have told me,” cries she, most unjustly turning upon Tom.

“Good heavens!  How could I?  I didn’t know myself.  I told you I had left my watch on my dressing-table.”

“Well, we are in for it now, any way,” says she, with a little nervous laugh.

She walks straight to the breakfast-room, and, throwing open the door, goes in.

“I’m so sorry!” says she at once.

She gives a little general, beaming smile all round.  Only Margaret can see the nervousness of it.  She had taken off her hat in the hall, and her pretty, short air is lying loosely on her forehead.  There is a tiny dab of mud on her cheek, close to the eye.  It is distinctly becoming, and looks more like a Queen Anne patch than anything else.

All the men rise as she enters, except Rylton, who is reading a letter of such deep importance, evidently, that he seems hardly to note his wife’s entrance.  Tita beckons to them all to resume their seats.

“I’m dreadfully sorry—­dreadfully,” says she, in a quick little way.  “I had no idea it was so late.  So good of you,” turning to Mrs. Bethune, who is sitting at the head of the table, “to take my place!  You see,” looking once again round her, “when I started I did not mean to go so far.”

“Ah! that is what so often happens,” says Mrs. Bethune, with a queer little glance from under her lids.

There is something so insolent both in her meaning and her voice, that Margaret’s face flushes, and she makes a slight movement as if to rise; but Colonel Neilson, who is next her, by a slight gesture restrains her.  She looks at Maurice, however, as if wondering why he does not interfere—­does not say something; but Maurice seems more than ever buried in his letter.  Indeed, beyond one brief glance at his wife, he has taken no notice of her.

Margaret’s eyes go back to Tita.  Everyone is offering her a seat here or there, and she is shaking her head in refusal.  Evidently Mrs. Bethune’s remark has gone by her, like the wind unheard; it had not been understood.

“Come and sit here, and have a hot cup of coffee,” says Captain Marryatt.