“Maurice!” says she sharply—­there is real anguish in her tone, her face has grown white as death—­“Maurice, come back.”  She holds out her arms to him.  “Oh—­darling, do not let your mother come between us!  That girl—­she will make you marry that girl.  She has money, whereas I—­what am I?  A mere castaway on life’s sea!  Yes, yes.”  She covers her face with her hands in a little paroxysm of despair.  “Yes,” faintly, “you will marry that girl.”

“Well, why not?” sullenly.  He is as white as she is—­his face is stern.  “If she will deign to accept me.  I have not so far,” with a bitter laugh, “been very successful in love affairs.”

“Oh! How can you say that—­and to me?”

She bursts into tears, and in a moment he has her in his arms.  His beautiful darling!  He soothes her, caresses her, lets her weave the bands of her fascination over him all fresh again.

It is only afterwards he remembers that through all her grief and love she had never so forgotten herself as to promise to exile herself for his sake in a foreign land.

CHAPTER V.

SHOWING HOW, WHEN PEOPLE DO CONGREGATE TOGETHER, MUCH KNOWLEDGE MAY BE FOUND, AND HOW THE LITTLE HOYDEN HAD SOME KIND THINGS SAID ABOUT HER.

“Game and set,” cries Tita at the top of her young voice, from the other end the court.  It would be useless to pretend she doesn’t shout it.  She is elated—­happy.  She has won.  She tears off the little soft round cap that, defiant of the sun, she wears, and flings it sky-high, catching it deftly as it descends upon the top of her dainty head, a little sideways.  Her pretty, soft, fluffy hair, cut short, and curled all over her head by Mother Nature, is flying a little wildly across her brows, her large gray eyes (that sometimes are so nearly black) are brilliant.  Altogether she is just a little, a very little, pronounced in her behaviour.  Her opponents, people who have come over to The Place for the day, whisper something to each other, and laugh a little.  After all, they have lost—­perhaps they are somewhat spiteful.  Lady Rylton, sitting on the terrace above, bites her lips.  What an impossible girl! and yet how rich!  Things must be wrong somewhere, when Fate showers money on such a little ill-bred creature.

“How funny she is!” says Mrs. Chichester, who is sitting near Lady Rylton, a guest at The Place in this house-party, this last big entertainment, that is to make or mar its master.  Lady Rylton had organized it, and Sir Maurice, who never contradicted her, and who had not the slightest idea of the real meaning of it, had shrugged his shoulders.  After all, let her have her own way to the last.  There would be enough to pay the debts and a little over for her; and for him, poverty, a new life, and emancipation.  He is tired of his mother’s rule.  “And how small!” goes on Mrs. Chichester, a tall young woman with light hair and queer eyes, whose husband is abroad with his regiment.  “Like a doll.  I love dolls; don’t you, Captain Marryatt?”