“On the contrary, as I have told you, I detest her.  Once Maurice has her money safely in his hands, I shall know how to deal with her.  A little, ignorant, detestable child!  I tell you, Marian, that the time will come when I shall pay her out for her silly insolence towards me.”

“She is evidently going to have a good time if Maurice proposes to her.”

“He shall propose.  Why——­” She breaks off suddenly.  “Not another word,” says she, putting up her hand.  “Here is Maurice.  I shall speak to him now.”

“Shall I stay and help you?”

“No, thank you,” says Lady Rylton, with a little knowing grimace.

Seeing it, Marian’s detestation grows apace.  She rises—­and calmly, yet swiftly, leaves the room.  Sir Maurice is only crossing the lawn now, and by running through the hall outside, and getting on to the veranda outside the dining-room window, she can see him before he enters the drawing-room.

Gaining the veranda, she leans over the railings and makes a signal to him; it is an old signal.  Rylton responds to it, and in a second is by her side.

“Oh no, you must not stay; your mother is waiting for you in the south drawing-room.  She saw you coming; she wants you.”

“Well, but about what?” asks Rylton, naturally bewildered.

“Nothing—­only—­she is going to advise you for your good.  Shall I,” smiling at him in her beautiful way, and laying one hand upon his breast—­“shall I advise you, too?”

“Yes, yes,” says Rylton; he takes the hand lying on his breast and lifts it to his lips.  “Advise me.”

“Ah, no!” She pauses, a most eloquent pause, filled with a long deep glance from her dark eyes. "There, go!" she says, suddenly pushing him from her.

“But your advice?” asks he, holding her.

“Pouf! as if that was worth anything.”  She looks up at him from under her lowered lids.  “Well, take it.  My advice to you is to come to the rose-garden as soon as possible, and see the roses before they fade out of all recognition! I am going there now.  You know how I love that rose-garden; I almost live there nowadays.”

“I wish I could live there too,” says Rylton, laughing.

He lifts her hand again and presses it fondly to his lips.  Something, however, in his air, though it had breathed devotion, troubles Mrs. Bethune; she frowns as he leaves her, and, turning into a side-path the leads to the rose-garden, gives herself up a prey to thought.

* * * * *

Rylton, with a shrug, goes toward the room where Marian had told him his mother was awaiting him.  He could very readily (as Lady Rylton had not formally requested his presence) have stayed away, but long experience has driven into him the knowledge that when his mother wants anything, all the delays and subterfuges and evasions in the world will not prevent her having it.  To get it over, then, as soon as possible is the chief thing.  And, after all, he is so far happy in that he knows what the immediate interview is to be about.  That little ridiculous girl—­not half a bad little girl—­but——­