“You will understand for the future, I hope,” says Lady Rylton, who has lost all control over her temper; “you will, for the future, at all events, I trust, bear yourself with respect towards the mistress of this house.”

Her manner is so insolent, so unbearable, that Tita’s short-lived calm gives way.

“Maurice says I am the mistress here,” says she distinctly, clearly.

“You! you——­“ Lady Rylton advances towards her with a movement that is almost threatening.

“Don’t be uneasy about it,” says Tita, with a scornful little laugh, and a gesture that destroys the meaning of Lady Rylton’s.  “I don’t want to be the mistress here.  I dislike the place.  I shall be delighted if you will live here—­instead of me."

“You are too good!” says Lady Rylton, in a choking tone.  She looks as if she could kill this girl, whom she has driven to so fierce an anger.

“I think it dismal,” goes on Tita.  “I like light and gay places.”  There is a little clutch at her heart, though why, she hardly knows.  What she does know is that she hates this pretty, fair, patrician woman before her—­this woman with a well-bred face, and the vulgarest of all vulgar natures.  This woman who has betrayed her son’s secret.  Even to so young a girl, and one who is not in love with her husband, the idea of the husband being in love with somebody else is distinctly distasteful.

“Besides, remember,” says Tita, “Mrs. Bethune lives here.  After all you have told me of her, and—­Maurice—­you,” breaking into a gay little laugh, “could hardly expect me to make this place my home.”

“You certainly seem to take it very lightly,” says Lady Rylton.  “Maurice must be congratulated on having secured so compliant a wife.”

“Why should I care?” asks Tita, turning a bright face to her.  “We made a bargain before our marriage—­Maurice and I. He was to do as he liked.”

“And you?”

“I was to follow suit.”

_ “Outrageous!"_ says Lady Rylton.  “I shall speak to Maurice about it.  I shall warn you.  I shall tell him how I disapprove of you, and he——­”

“He will do nothing,” interrupts Tita.  She stands up, and looks at the older woman as if defying her.  Her small face is all alight, her eyes are burning.

“I dare say not, after all,” says Lady Rylton, with a cruel smile.  “He knew what he was about when he made that arrangement.  It leaves him delightfully free to renew his love-affair with Marian Bethune.”

“If he desires such freedom it is his.”  Tita gathers up her fan, and the long suède gloves lying on the chair near her, and walks towards the door.

“Stay, Tita!” cries Lady Rylton hurriedly.  “You will say nothing of this to Maurice.  It was in strict confidence I spoke, and for your good and his.  You will say nothing to him?”

“I! what should I say?” She looks back at Lady Rylton, superb disdain in her glance.