As she sees him, Tita gives a little cry.  She had plainly taken him for one of the hunters, and had hoped he would pass by.

“Oh, you!” cries she.  “You!  Go away.  Go at once! They’ll find us if——­”

She waves him frantically from her.  He is too angry to see that there is not a vestige of embarrassment in her air.

Here Gower comes up panting.

“Caught!” cries he, making a pounce of Tita.

“Not a bit of it!” says she, springing away from him to the other side of the screen.  “And you, Randal, you are not hunting.  Where’s Colonel Neilson?  Where’s Margaret?”

“They changed,” says Mr. Gower mendaciously.  “Miss Hescott and I are upon the track; we are the bloodhounds—­we,” making another grab at her soft gown, “have got you!”

“No, you haven’t,” says Tita, whereupon there ensues a very animated chase round and round the screen, Tita at last finding shelter—­of all places—­behind her husband—­behind Maurice, whose face it is quite as well she cannot see.

He makes a movement as if to go, but she catches him, and unless he were to use violence he could hardly get away.

“There now!” says she, addressing Rylton indignantly.  “See how you’ve given us away.  You’ve told him where we were.  Don’t stir.  You mustn’t.  If you do he’ll catch me.”

She laughs defiantly at Gower as she says this.  Gower could have laughed too.  There could, indeed, be hardly anything stranger than the scene as it stands—­comedy and tragedy combined.  The husband cold, impassive, stern, and over his shoulder the charming face of his little wife peeping—­all mirth and fun and gaiety.

“You must stay,” says she, giving Sir Maurice a little shake.  “Why, you’ve betrayed our hiding-place.  You’ve shown him where we were.  It isn’t fair, Randal—­it isn’t indeed——­”

“You are caught, any way,” says Gower, who would willingly bring the scene to a close.

He can see Maurice’s face, she cannot.  As for Tom Hescott, his sister has chased him out of the gallery long before this, with a promptitude that does her credit.

“Caught!  Not I,” says Tita.  “Caught, indeed!”

“Certainly you’re caught,” says Gower, making frantic little dabs at her; but she dances away from him, letting her husband go, and rushing once more behind the unfriendly screen that has done her so bad a turn.

“Certainly I’m not," retorts she, nodding her saucy head at him.  Slowly and artfully, as she speaks, she moves towards the farther end of the screen, always keeping an eye on her adversary over the top of it until she comes to the far end, when, darting like a little swallow round the corner, she flies down the long, dark gallery.  Once only she turns. "Now am I caught?” cries she, laughing defiance at Gower.

“Call that fair, if you like!” says he, in high disgust.