“If you can be frivolous at this moment, Maurice, you can be frivolous for ever,” says his mother, weeping (presumably) behind her little lace rag, her voice like a dagger.

“I’m far from that,” says Maurice, flinging himself into a chair.  “But the fact is, mother, let us leave Tita out of this affair.  I object to hearing her—­er—­criticised by you—­or anyone.”

Tessie weeps afresh.

“The soul of honour,” breathes she, apostrophizing the ceiling.  “But I cannot let you, Maurice, be so deceived by a mere swindler such as she is.  Do you for a moment imagine—­ah yes!” throwing up her hands and plainly admiring Maurice with great fervour—­“you probably do; you have a soul, Maurice, a great soul, inherited from me! But I shall not permit that little vulgar fraud of a girl to demoralize it.  Of course she knew all about her uncle’s speculations—­and married you gladly, knowing what the end would be.  Oh! my poor boy!”

Lady Rylton retires again behind her lace rag.

“That will do,” says Maurice curtly.

It seems almost funny to him that he, who has been condemning Tita all the night and morning in his heart, can now be so violently angry with another fellow-creature for decrying her.

“Of course, I know.  I understand,” says Tessie, still weeping, “it is always so painful to know that one has been thoroughly taken in.  No wonder you can’t listen even to your own mother with common patience.  I excuse you, Maurice.  I often had to excuse your dear father.  Both you and he were a little weak—­a little noble, perhaps—­but well, you required someone to look after you.  And I—­poor, poor I—­what could I do?” Tessie shakes her head mournfully from side to side.  “And as for this miserable little deception——­”

“Look here, mother——­”

“Oh!  I know, I know.  It is not the nice thing to do, of course, but alone with one’s only son one may waive a point and condole with him on the abominable qualities of the woman he has chosen to be his wife——­ Dear Maurice, you should be careful.  Didn’t you see that footstool?  I quite thought you kicked it.  And her laugh.  Do you know it used to hurt me?”

“Not until after our marriage, however,” says Rylton, who is now a little strung.

“Oh! no wonder you reproach me,” says his mother.  “I shall for ever reproach myself. Such a person—­without a penny—­to fling herself into your arms.”

“Ah! she had a penny then,” says Maurice.

“Then?  Yes!  Do you think I should have countenanced your marriage otherwise?”

“My dear mother, of course not.  I know you too well for that.”

His irony is thrown away upon Tessie, who is not equal to these drags upon her intellect, and as a fact Rylton is scarcely listening to her; his whole soul is in a turmoil.  He scarcely knows what he wants or what he does not want—­whom he loves or hates.  Only Tita—­Tita is always before him; and as hate is stronger than love, as some folk have it (though they lie), he believes that all his thoughts grow with a cruel persistence of detestation towards the small, ill-tempered child whom he has married.