But she is gone.

* * * * *

The house is quiet again.  Gower and Marryatt are still lingering in the smoking-room, but for the rest, they have bidden each other “Good-night” and gone to their rooms.

Tita is sitting before her glass having her hair brushed, when a somewhat loud knock comes to her door.  The maid opens it, and Sir Maurice walks in.

“You can go,” says he to Sarah, who courtesies and withdraws.

“Oh! it is you,” says Tita, springing up.

Her hair has just been brushed for the night, and round her forehead some cloudy ringlets are lying.  She had thrown on her dressing-gown—­a charming creation of white cashmere, almost covered with lace—­without a thought of fastening it, and her young and lovely neck shows through the opening of the laces whiter than its surroundings.  Her petticoat—­all white lace, too, and caught here and there with tiny knots of pale pink ribbons—­is naturally shorter than her gown would be, and shows the dainty little feet beneath them.

    “When youth and beauty meet together,
    There’s worke for breath.”

And surely here are youth and beauty met together!  Rylton, seeing the sweet combination, draws a long breath.

She advances towards him in the friendliest way, as if delighted.

“I haven’t had a word with you,” says she.  “Hardly one.  You just told me your mother had not come, and”—­she stops, and breaks into a gay little laugh—­“you must forgive me, but what I said to myself was, ’Thank goodness!’ “ She covers her eyes with widened fingers, and peeps at him through them.  “What I said to you out loud was, ‘Oh, I am sorry!’ Do you remember?  Now, am I not a hypocrite?”

At this she takes down her hands from her eyes, and holds them out to him in the prettiest way.

He pushes them savagely from him.

“You are!” says he hoarsely; “and one of the very worst of your kind!”

CHAPTER VIII.

HOW TITA, HAVING BEEN REPULSED, GROWS ANGRY; AND HOW A VERY PRETTY BATTLE IS FOUGHT OUT; AND HOW TITA GAINS A PRESENT; AND HOW SIR MAURICE LOSES HIS TEMPER.

Her hands drop to her sides.  She grows suddenly a little pale.  Her eyes widen.

“What is it?  What have I done now?" asks she.

The “now” has something pathetic in it.

“Done! done!” He is trying to keep down the fury that is possessing him.  He had come to speak to her with a fixed determination in his heart not to lose his temper, not to let her have that advantage over him.  He would be calm, judicial, but now——­ What is the matter with him now?  Seeing her there, so lovely and so sweet, so full of all graciousness—­a very flower of beauty—­a little thing—­

    “Light as the foam that flecks the seas,
    Fitful as summer’s sunset breeze”—­

somehow a very rage of anger conquers him, and he feels as if he would like to take her and compel her to his will.  “You have done one thing, at all events,” says he.  “You have forfeited my trust in you for ever.”