“A widow—­thank God!"

A silence follows; something of tragedy seems to have fallen into the air—­with that young lovely creature standing there, upright, passionate, her arms clasped behind her head, as the heroine of it.  The sunlight from the dying day lights up the red, rich beauty of her hair, the deadly pallor of her skin.  Through it all the sound of the tennis-balls from below, as they hurry to and fro through the hair, can be heard.  Perhaps it reaches her.  She flings herself suddenly into a chair, and bursts out laughing.

“Let us come back to common-sense,” cries she.  “What were we talking of?  The marriage of Maurice to this little plebeian—­this little female Croesus.  Well, what of the argument—­what?”

Her manner is a little excited.

“I, for one, object to the marriage,” says Margaret distinctly.  “The child is too young and too rich!  She should be given a chance; she should not be coerced and drawn into a mesh, as it were, without her knowledge.”

“A mesh?  Do you call a marriage with my son a mesh?” asks Lady Rylton angrily.  “He of one of the oldest families in England, and she a nobody!”

“There is no such thing as a nobody,” says Miss Knollys calmly.  “This girl has intellect, mind, a soul! She has even money!  She must be considered.”

“She has no birth!” says Lady Rylton.  “If you are going in for Socialistic principles, Margaret, pray do not expect me to follow you.  I despise folly of that sort.”

“I am not a Socialist,” says Margaret slowly, “and yet why cannot this child be accepted as one of ourselves?  Where is the great difference?  You object to her marrying your son, yet you want to marry her to your son.  How do you reconcile it?  Surely you are more of Socialist than I am.  You would put the son of a baronet and the daughter of heaven knows who on an equality.”

“Never!” says Lady Rylton.  “You don’t understand.  She will always be just as she is, and Maurice——­”

“And their children?” asks Margaret.

Here Mrs. Bethune springs to her feet.

“Good heavens!  Margaret, have you not gone far enough?” says she.  If her face had been pale before, it is livid now.  “Why, this marriage—­this marriage”—­she beats her hand upon a table near her—­“one would think it was a fact accomplished!”

“I was only saying,” says Miss Knollys, looking with a gentle glance at Marian, “that if Maurice were to marry this girl——­”

“It would be an honour to her,” interrupts Lady Rylton hotly.

“It would be a degradation to him,” says Margaret coldly.  “He does not love her.”

She might have said more, but that suddenly Marian Bethune stops her.  The latter, who is leaning against the curtains of the window, breaks into a wild little laugh.

“Love—­what is love?” cries she.  “Oh, foolish Margaret!  Do not listen to her, Tessie, do not listen.”