“They are very pretty,” smiles Rylton, returning her gaze.

Suddenly for the first time it occurs to him that she has a beauty that is all her own.

“Oh no! there is nothing pretty about me,” says Tita.

She gives a sudden shrug of her shoulders.  She is still lying on the rug, her face resting on the palms of her hands.  Again she lifts her eyes slowly to Rylton; it is an entirely inconsequent glance—­a purely idle glance—­and yet it suddenly occurs to Mrs. Bethune, watching her narrowly, that there is coquetry in it; undeveloped, certainly, but there.  She is now a child; but later on?

Maurice is smiling back at the child as if amused.  Mrs. Bethune lays her hands upon his arm—­Lady Rylton has gone away with old Lady Eshurst.

“Maurice! there will be just time for a walk before tea,” says she in a whisper, her beautiful face uplifted very near to his.  Her eyes are full of promise.

He turns with her.

“Sir Maurice!  Sir Maurice!” cries Tita; “remember our match at golf to-morrow!” Sir Maurice looks back.  “Mr. Gower and I, against you and Mrs. Bethune.  You do remember?”

“Yes, and we shall win,” says Mrs. Bethune, with a cold smile.

“Oh no! don’t think it.  We shall beat you into a cocked hat!” cries Tita gaily.

“Good heavens! how vulgar she is!” says Mrs. Bethune.

CHAPTER VII.

HOW THE ARGUMENT GROWS HIGHER; AND HOW MARIAN LOSES HER TEMPER, AND HOW MARGARET OBJECTS TO THE RUIN OF ONE YOUNG LIFE.

“She is insufferable—­intolerable!” says Lady Rylton, almost hysterically.  She is sitting in the drawing-room with Margaret and Mrs. Bethune, near one of the windows that overlook the tennis court.  The guests of the afternoon have gone; only the house-party remains, and still, in the dying daylight, the tennis balls are being tossed to and fro.  Tita’s little form may be seen darting from side to side; she is playing again with Sir Maurice.

“She is a very young girl, who has been brought up without a mother’s care,” says Miss Knollys, who has taken a fancy to the poor hoyden, and would defend her.

“Her manners this afternoon!—­her actions—­her fatal admissions!” says Lady Rylton, who has not forgiven that word or two about the sugar merchant.

“She spoke only naturally. She saw no reason why she should not speak of——­”

“Don’t be absurd, Margaret!” Sharply.  “You know, as well as I do, that she is detestable.”

“I am quite glad you have formed that idea of her,” says Miss Knollys, “as it leads me to hope you do not now desire to marry her to Maurice.”

After all, there are, perhaps, moments when Margaret is not as perfect as one believes her.  She can’t, for example, resist this thrust.

“Decidedly I don’t desire to marry her to Maurice,” says Lady Rylton angrily.  “I have told you that often enough, I think; but for all that Maurice must marry her.  It is his last chance!”