“My dear Mr. Gower,” says Mrs. Bethune, “do spare us!  I’m sure you must be portraying Miss Bolton wrongly.  Emotion—­to betray emotion—­how vulgar!”

“I like emotion,” says Mr. Gower calmly; “I’m a perfect mass of it myself.  Have you noticed Miss Bolton’s laugh, Rylton?” to Sir Maurice, who had come up a moment ago, and had been listening to Mrs. Bethune’s last remark.  “It seems to run all through her.  Not an inch that doesn’t seem to enjoy it.”

“Well, there aren’t many inches,” says Sir Maurice, with am amused air.

“And the laugh itself—­so gay.”

“You are en enthusiast,” says Sir Maurice, who is standing near Mrs. Bethune.

“My dear fellow, who wouldn’t be, in such a cause?” says the young cavalryman, with a rather conscious laugh.

“Here she is,” says Mrs. Chichester, who is one of those people whom Nature has supplied with eyes behind and before.

Tita running up the slope at this moment like a young deer—­a steep embankment that would have puzzled a good many people—­puts an effectual end to the conversation.  Mr. Gower graciously deigning to give her half of his rug, she sinks upon it gladly.  She likes Gower.

Lady Rylton calls to her.

“Not on the grass, Tita dearest,” cries she, in her little shrill, old-young voice.  “Come here to me, darling.  Next to me on this seat.  Marian,” to Mrs. Bethune, who has been sitting on the garden-chair with her, “you can make a little room, eh?”

“A great deal,” says Marian.

She rises.

“Oh no! don’t stir.  Not for me,” says Tita, making a little gesture to her to reseat herself.  “No, thank you, Lady Rylton; I shall stay here.  I’m quite happy here.  I like sitting on the grass.”

She makes herself a little more comfortable where she is, regardless of the honour Lady Rylton would have done her—­regardless, too, of the frown with which her hostess now regards her.

Mr. Gower turns upon her a beaming countenance.

“What you really mean is,” says he, “that you like sitting near me."

“Indeed I do not,” says Tita indignantly.

“My dear girl, think.  Am I to understand, then, that you don’t like sitting near me?”

“Ah, that’s a different thing,” says Tita, with a little side-glance at him that shows a disposition to laughter.

“You see! you see!” says Mr. Gower triumphantly—­he has a talent for teasing.  “Then you do wish to sit beside me!  And why not?” He expands his hands amiably.  “Could you be beside a more delightful person?”

“Maybe I could,” says Tita, with another glance.

Rylton, who is listening, laughs.

His laugh seems to sting Mrs. Bethune to her heart.  She turns to him, and lets her dark eyes rest on his.

“What a little flirt!” says she contemptuously.

“Oh no! a mere child,” returns he.