"I was going to name her,” says Rylton.

“Then you see we have one thought in common,” says Tita.

She has knelt down beside him to look at his list, and suddenly he lays his palm under her chin, and so lifts her face that he can see it.

“What is it, Tita?” says he.  “Is anything troubling you?  Last night you were so silent; to-day you talk.  It is bad to be unequal.”

His tone is grave.

“The night before last I had a bad dream,” says Tita solemnly, turning her head a little to one side, and giving him a slight glance that lasts for the tiniest fraction of a second.

It occurs to Rylton that there is a little touch of wickedness in it.  At all events, he grows interested.

“A bad dream?”

“Yes, the worst!” She nods her small head reproachfully at him.  “I dreamt you were married to a princess!”

“Well, so I am,” says Rylton, smiling.

His smile is a failure, however; something in her air has disconcerted him.

“Oh no!  No, she was not like me; she was a tall princess, and she was beautiful, and her hair was like a glory round her head.  She was a very dream in herself; whereas I——­ Naturally , that puts me out of sorts!” She shrugs her shoulders pathetically.  “But last night”—­she stops, clasps her hands, and sits back on her heels.  “Oh no!  I shan’t tell you what I dreamt last night,” says she.  She shakes her head at him.  “No, no! indeed, not if you asked me for ever!"

“Oh, but you must!” says he, laughing.

He catches her hands and draws her up gently into a kneeling position once more—­a position that brings her slender body resting against his knees.

“Must I?” She pauses as if in amused thought, and then, leaning confidentially across his knees, says, “Well, then, I dreamt that you were madly in love with me! And, oh, the joy of it!”

She breaks off, and gives way to irrepressible laughter.  Covering her face with her hands, she peeps at him through her fingers as a child might who is bent on mischief.

“Is all that true?” asks Maurice, colouring.

“What, the first dream or the second?”

“I presume one is as true as the other,” somewhat stiffly.

“You are a prophet,” says Tita, with a little grimace.  “Well now, go on, do.  We have arranged for Margaret.”  She pauses, and then says very softly, "Darling Margaret!  Do you know, I believe she is the only friend I have in the world?”

Her words cut him to the heart.

“And I, Tita, do I not count?” asks he.

“You!  No!” She gives him a little shake, taking his arms, as she kneels beside him.  “You represent Society, don’t you?  And Society forbids all that.  No man’s wife is his friend nowadays.”

“True,” says Rylton bitterly.  “Most men’s wives are their enemies nowadays.”

“Oh, I shan’t be yours!” says Tita.  “And you mustn’t be mine either, remember!  Well, go on—­we have put down Margaret,” peeping at the paper in his hand, “and no one else.  Now, someone to meet her.  Colonel Neilson?”