“My dear Lady Rylton!”

“Heavens—­what a prayer!” exclaims Mrs. Chichester.

“Let us say it backwards,” says captain Marryatt, which is considered such a wonderful departure for him, such a stroke of wit on his part, that everyone laughs in the most encouraging fashion.

“You’ll be a reigning wit yet, if you don’t look out,” says Mrs. Chichester.

“As you are a reigning toast,” responds he, quite fired by the late ovation.

“Oh, goodness!” says Mrs. Chichester, shrugging up her thin shoulders and casting a queer glance round her from under her brows; “let us take him away quickly, before he cuts himself with his own smartness.”

“Yes.  Come down to the library, it’s warmer there,” says Tita.  She leads the way to the door, and when at it looks back over her shoulder at her husband.  “Are you coming, Maurice?”

“In a moment or two.  I have a few letters to write first.”

“And you?” says Tita, looking at Mrs. Bethune.

“I, too, have some letters to write,” returns Marian.

Her tone is quite ordinary, but to the young girl gazing at her there seems something defiant in her eyes and her smile.  What is it in the smile—­a sort of hateful amusement.

Tita leaves the room.  She goes out and down the spiral stairs quite collectedly, to all appearance, yet she is not aware for a moment that Margaret’s hand is on her arm.  For the first time—­the first time in all her young and most innocent life—­a sin has touched her soul.  She has learned to hate—­she as yet does not know why—­but she knows she hates Marian Bethune.

As the door closes behind her and her guests, Rylton turns on Marian.

“Why did you say that?  Why didn’t you go?” says he.

His face is white as death.  He cannot account to himself for the agitation that is consuming him.

“Why should I not say what is the truth?” returns she, her beautiful daring eyes full on his.  “Why should I go?  Does Lady Rylton demand that all her guests should be at her beck and call, morning, noon, and night?”

“She demands nothing,” says Rylton.

The terrible truth of what he is saying goes home to him.  What has she ever demanded, that poor child, who has given him her fortune, her life?  Her little, sweet, half-pathetic face as she looked back at him from the doorway is before him.  Her face is often before him now.

“She must be a fool, then,” says Marian insolently.  She takes a step nearer to him.  “Don’t let us talk of her.  What is she to us?” cries she, in a low fierce tone that speaks of words held back for many days, words that have been scorching her, and must find sound at last.  “Maurice!  Maurice! how long is this to go on!” She takes a step nearer to him, and then, as if it is impossible to her to hold back any longer, she flings herself suddenly into his arms.  “Maurice, speak to me.  My love!  My life!” Her words are low, dispirited, broken by little sobs.