The very disquietude of his soul has driven him into this mad avowal.  Looking at her with dull eyes and lowering brows, he tells himself—­in this, one of the saddest hours of his life—­that he hates the mother who bore him.  Her delight in his engagement is odious to him; it seems to fan his rage against her.  What has she ever done for him, what sympathy has she ever shown?  She has embittered the life of the woman he loves; she has insulted the woman he is to marry.  What consideration does she deserve at his hands?

“She refuses to live here with me?" says Lady Rylton.  “And why, may I ask?”

Her small, pale face flushes angrily.

“I don’t know, really; you should be the one to know.”

His tone is so cold, so uncompromising, that she decides on coming to terms for the present.  Afterwards, when that girl has married him, she will remember to some purpose, so far as she is concerned.  There is a little tale that she can tell her.

“Dearest Maurice, how could I?  I always fancied I treated her with the utmost kindness.  But why should we worry about it?  No doubt it was a mere girlish fancy, a distaste,” playfully, “to the terrible mamma-in-law of fiction.  Such monsters do not exist now.  She will learn that by degrees.  You will bring her to stay with me for awhile on your return from your honeymoon?”

“If you desire it.”

“Of course I shall desire it; then she and I will become great friends.  You are going?  My love to your little fiancée, and say I am so charmed, so delighted!  And tell her I should like her to come to me for a quiet little talk in the morning about eleven; I shall have no one with me then but Marian.”

“She shall not come to you, then,” says Rylton.  A dark red mounts to his brow.  What a diabolical thought—­to receive those two together!  “Do you hear?" says he imperiously.

“Good heavens, yes!” says his mother, pretending prettily to cower before him.  “What a tone!  What a look!  What have I done, then?”

“What devilish cruelty is in your heart I don’t know,” says he, his passion carrying him beyond all bounds; “but understand at once, I will not have Tita tortured.”

Lady Rylton leans back in her chair and laughs.

“You would have made a good tragic actor,” she says.  “If this little plebeian throws you over after all, you should think of it.  You remind me of your father when he was in his most amusing moods.  There, go; kiss Tita for me.”  Rylton turns to the door, his very soul on fire with rage.  Just as he goes out, she calls to him, with a little soft musical ripple of laughter.  “By-the-bye, take care you do not kiss Marian instead,” says she.

* * * * * *

He meets Margaret on his way downstairs.  He had walked up and down the passages above, in the dim light, with a view to bringing himself back into a state of control, with so much success that, when he comes face to face with Miss Knollys, he seems to her as self-possessed as usual.  He had seen her talking to Tita in the hall below, in a somewhat earnest manner, and had taken it for granted that Tita had told her of their engagement.