“It isn’t true.  I don’t believe a word of it,” says Tita, making a snatch at the paper.

“My dear girl, why not?  Two dozen old toothbrushes. Old toothbrushes, you notice.  Everything old now goes for a large sum, except,” thoughtfully, “aunts.”

He casts a lingering glance round, but providentially Miss Gower has disappeared.

“But toothbrushes!  Show me that paper.”

“Do you, then, disbelieve in my word?”

“Nobody could want a toothbrush.”

“Some people want them awfully,” says Mr. Gower.  “Haven’t you noticed?”

But here Sir Maurice sees it his duty to interfere.

“Miss Bolton, will you play this next set with me?” says he, coming up to Tita.

“Oh, I should love it!” cries she.  “You are so good a player.  Do get us some decent people to play against, though; I hate a weak game.”

“Well, come, we’ll try and manage it,” says he, amused at her enthusiasm.

They move away together.

CHAPTER VI.

HOW GAMES WERE PLAYED, “OF SORTS”; AND HOW TITA WAS MUCH HARRIED, BUT HOW SHE BORE HERSELF VALIANTLY, AND HOW, NOT KNOWING OF HER VICTORIES, SHE WON ALL THROUGH.

There had been no question about it; it had been a walk-over.  Even Lord Eshurst and Miss Staines, who are considered quite crack people at tennis in this part of the county, had not had a chance.  Tita had been everywhere; she seemed to fly.  Every ball caught, and every ball so well planted.  Rylton had scarcely been in it, though a good player.  That little thing was here and there and everywhere, yet Rylton could not say she poached.  Whatever she did, however, she won.

She does not throw up her cap this time—­perhaps she had seen a little of that laughter before—­but she claps her hands joyfully, and pats Rylton’s arm afterwards in a bon camarade fashion that seems to amuse him.  And is she tired?  There is no sense of fatigue, certainly, in the way she runs up the slope again, and flings herself gracefully upon the rug beside Mr. Gower.  Mr. Gower has not stirred from that rug since.  He seldom stirs.  Perhaps he would not be quite so stout if he did.

“You won your game?” says Margaret Knollys, bending towards Tita, with a smile.

Old Lady Eshurst is smiling at her, too.

“Oh yes; how could I help it?  Sir Maurice”—­with a glance at the latter as he climbs the slope in turn—­“plays like an angel.”

“Oh no; it is you who do that,” says he, laughing.

“Are you an angel, Miss Bolton?” asks Mrs. Bethune, who is standing next Rylton.

He had gone straight to her, but she had not forgiven his playing with the girl at all, and a sense of hatred towards Tita is warming her breast.

“I don’t know,” says Tita, with a slight grimace.  It is not the answer expected.  Marian had expected to see her shy, confused; Tita, on the contrary, is looking at her with calm, inquiring eyes.  “Do you?” asks she.