“Why, that is about your age now, isn’t it?” says Gower.

“We lived at Oakdean then,” goes on Tita, taking, very properly, no notice of him, “and my father liked me to ride.  My cousin was with us there, and he taught me.  I rode a great deal before”—­she pauses, and her lips quiver; she is evidently thinking of some grief that has entered into her young life and saddened it—­“before I went to live with my uncle.”

“It was your cousin who taught you to ride, then?  Is he a son of the—­the uncle with whom you now live?” asks Sir Maurice, who is rather ashamed of exhibiting such interest in her.

“No, no, indeed!  He is a son of my aunt’s—­my father’s sister.  She married a man in Birmingham—­a sugar merchant.  I did love Uncle Joe,” says Tita warmly.

“No wonder!” says Mrs. Bethune.  “I wish I had an uncle a sugar merchant.  It does sound sweet.”

“I’m not sure that you would think my uncle Joe sweet!” says Miss Bolton thoughtfully.  “He wasn’t good to look at.  He had the biggest mouth that ever I saw, and his nose was little and turned up, but I loved him.  I love him now, even when he is gone.  And one does forget, you know!  He said such good things to people, and”—­covering her little face with her hands, and bursting into an irrepressible laugh—­“he told such funny stories!”

Lady Rylton makes a sudden movement.

“Dear Lady Eshurst, wouldn’t you like to come and see the houses?” asks she.

“I am afraid I must be going home,” says old Lady Eshurst.  “It is very late; you must forgive my staying so long, but your little friend—­by-the-bye, is she a friend or relation?”

“A friend!” says Lady Rylton sharply.

“Well, she is so entertaining that I could not bear to go away sooner.”

“Yes—­yes; she is very charming,” says Lady Rylton, as she hurries Lady Eshurst down the steps that lead to the path below.

Good heavens!  If she should hear some of Uncle Joe’s funny stories!  She takes Lady Eshurst visibly in tow, and walks her out of hearing.

“What a good seat you must have!” says Mr. Woodleigh presently, who has been dwelling on what Tita has said about her riding.

“Oh, pretty well!  Everyone should ride,” says Tita indifferently.  “I despise a man who can’t conquer a horse.  I,” laughing, “never saw the horse that I couldn’t conquer.”

“You?  Look at your hands!” says Gower, laughing.

“Well, what’s the matter with them?” says she.  “My cousin, when he was riding, used to say they were made of iron.”

“Of velvet, rather.”

“No.  He said my heart was made of that.”  She laughs gaily, and suddenly looking up at Rylton, who is looking down at her, she fixes her eyes on his.  She spreads her little hands abroad, brown as berries though they are with exposure to all sorts of weather.  They are small brown hands, and very delicately shaped.  “They are not so bad after all, are they?” says she.