“You think Maurice will propose to this Miss Bolton?” says Marian Bethune, leaning forward.  There is something sarcastic in her smile.

“He must.  It is detestable, of course.  One would like a girl in his own rank, but there are so few of them with money, and when there is one, her people want her to marry a Duke or a foreign Prince—­so tiresome of them!”

“It is all such folly,” says Margaret, knitting her brows.

“Utter folly,” says Lady Rylton.  “That is what makes it so wise!  It would be folly to marry a satyr—­satyrs are horrid—­but if the satyr had millions! Oh, the wisdom of it!”

“You go too far!” says Margaret.  “Money is not everything.”

“And Maurice is not a satyr,” says Mrs. Bethune, a trifle unwisely.  She has been watching the players on the ground below.  Lady Rylton looks at her.

“Of course you object to it,” says she.

“I!” says Marian.  “Why should I object to it?  I talk of marriage only in the abstract.”

“I am glad of that!” Lady Rylton’s eyes are still fixed on hers.  “This will be a veritable marriage, I assure you; I have set my mind on it.  It is terrible to contemplate, but one must give way sometimes; yet the thought of throwing that girl into the arms of darling Maurice——­”

She breaks off, evidently overcome, yet behind the cobweb she presses to her cheeks she has an eye on Marian.

“I don’t think Maurice’s arms could hold her,” says Mrs. Bethune, with a low laugh.  It is a strange laugh.  Lady Rylton’s glance grows keener.  “Such a mere doll of a thing.  A mite!” She laughs again, but this time (having caught Lady Rylton’s concentrated gaze) in a very ordinary manner—­the passion, the anger has died out of it.

“Yes, she’s a mere mite,” says Lady Rylton.  “She is positively trivial!  She is in effect a perfect idiot in some ways.  You know I have tried to impress her—­to show her that she is not altogether below our level—­as she certainly is—­but she has refused to see my kindness.  She—­she’s very fatiguing,” says Lady Rylton, with a long-suffering sigh.  “But one gets accustomed to grievances.  This girl, just because she is hateful to me, is the one I must take into my bosom.  She is going to give her fortune to Maurice!”

“And Maurice?” asks Margaret.

“Is going to take it,” returns his mother airily.  “And is going to give her, what she has never had—­a name!"

“A cruel compact,” says Margaret slowly, but with decision.  “I think this marriage should not be so much as thought of!  That child! and Maurice, who cares nothing for her.  Marian”—­Miss Knollys turns suddenly to Marian, who has withdrawn behind the curtains, as if determined to have nothing to say further to the discussion—­ “Marian, come here.  Say you think Maurice should not marry this silly child—­this baby.”

“Oh! as for me,” says Mrs. Bethune, coming out from behind the curtains, her face a little pale, “what is my weight in this matter?  Nothing! nothing!  Let Maurice marry as he will.”