“You might mention, for example, that it was I who told you.”

“Well, why shouldn’t I?” asked Tita.  “Are you ashamed of what you have said?”

“I have always told you that I spoke only through a sense of duty, to protect you and him in your married life.  You will give me your word that you will not betray me.”

“I shall give you my word about nothing,” coldly.  “I shall tell Maurice, or I shall not tell him, just as it suits me.”

CHAPTER XIV.

HOW TITA COMES TO OAKDEAN, AND IS GLAD.  AND HOW MAURICE CALLS TO HER, AND SHE PERFORMS AN ACROBATIC FEAT.  AND HOW A DISCUSSION ARISES.

What a day it is!  Golden light everywhere; and the sounds of singing birds, and the perfume of the late mignonette and stocks.  Who shall say summer is gone?  Tita, flitting gaily through the gardens and pleasure-grounds of her old dear home, her beloved Oakdean, tells herself that it is summer here at all events, whatever it may be in other stupid homes.

Oakdean to-day is at its best, and that is saying a great deal.  The grand old lawn, studded here and there with giant beeches, seems sleeping solemnly in the warm light, and to their left the lake lies, sleeping too, rocking upon its breast the lily leaves, whose flowers are now all gone.  Over there the hills are purple with flowering heather, and beyond them, yet not so far away but that the soft murmuring of it can be heard, dwells the sea, spreading itself out, grand, immense, until it seems to touch the pale blue heavens.

Tita, stopping with her hands full of lowers, stands upright, and as a little breeze comes to her, draws in a long breath, as if catching the salt from the great ocean that it brings her.  Oh, what a day—­what a day!

Her lovely old home!  Here she is in it once more—­parted for ever from the detested uncle, mistress of this one place that holds for her the only happy memories of her youth.  Here she and her father had lived—­she a young, young child, and he an old one—­a most happy couple; and here, too, she had grown to girlhood.  And now here she is again, free to roam, to order, to direct, with no single hitch anywhere to mar her happiness.

The lovely new horse that Maurice has got for her leaves nothing to be desired; she has had a gallop on him this morning.  And all her dear dogs have been sent to Oakdean, so that her hands are full of favourites.  As for Maurice himself, he is delightful.  He doesn’t even know how to scold.  And it will always to be like this—­always.  As for that story of Lady Rylton’s about Marian Bethune—­why, Marian is quite an old thing!  And besides—­well, besides, it doesn’t matter.  Maurice is here now, and he can’t see her, and even if he did—­well, even if he did, what harm?  Neither she nor Maurice even pretends to be in love with the other, and if he should be in love—­as the idiots call it—­with Mrs. Bethune, why, he can be! She won’t prevent it, only she hopes poor Maurice won’t make himself unhappy over that dreadful red-headed creature.  But there is certainly one thing; he might have told her.