Tita Bolton is dancing, but when her dance comes to an end he goes to her and asks her for the next.  Yes; he can have it.  She dances like a little fairy, and when the waltz is at an end he goes with her, half mechanically, towards the conservatory at the end of the room.

His is calm now, quite calm; the chatter of the child has soothed him.  It had been a pleasure to dance with her, to laugh when she laughed, to listen to her nonsense.  As he walks with her towards the flowers, he tells himself he is not in the least unhappy, though always quite close to him, at his side, someone seems to be whispering: 

“It is all over! it is all over!”

Well, so much the better.  She has fooled him too long.

The conservatory at the end of the lesser ballroom leads on to the balcony outside, and at the end of that is another and larger conservatory, connected with the drawing-room.  Towards this he would have led her, but Tita, in the middle of the balcony, stops short.

“But I want to dance,” says she.

That far-off house, full of flowers, seems very much removed from the music.

“You have been playing tennis all day,” says Rylton.  “You must be tired.  It is bad for you to fatigue yourself so much.  You have had enough dancing for awhile.  Come and sit with me.  I, too, am tired.”

“Well, for awhile,” says she reluctantly.

It is with evident regret that she takes every step that leads her away from the dancing-room.

The larger conservatory is but dimly lit with lamps covered with pale pink shades.  The soft musical tinkling of a fountain, hidden somewhere amongst the flowering shrubs, adds a delicious sense of coolness to the air.  The delicate perfume of heliotrope mingles with the breath of the roses, yellow and red and amber, that, standing in their pots, nod their heads drowsily.  The begonias, too, seem half dead with sleep.  The drawing-room beyond is deserted.

“Now, is not this worth a moment’s contemplation?” says Rylton, pressing her gently into a deep lounging chair that seems to swallow up her little figure.  “It has its own charm, hasn’t it?”

He has flung himself into another chair beside her, and is beginning to wonder if he might have a cigarette.  He might almost have believed himself content, but for that hateful monotonous voice at his ear.

“Oh, it is pretty,” says Tita, glancing round her.  “It is lovely.  It reminds me of Oakdean.”

“Oakdean?”

“My old home,” says she softly—­“where I lived with my father.”

“Ah, tell me something of your life,” says Rylton kindly.

No idea of making himself charming to her is in his thoughts.  He has, indeed, but one idea, and that is to encourage her to talk, so that he himself may enjoy the bliss of silence.

“There is nothing,” says she quickly.  “It has been a stupid life.  I was very happy at Oakdean, when,” hesitating, “papa was alive; but now I have to live at Rickfort, with Uncle George, and,” simply, “I’m not happy.”