“Yes, of course; and Captain Marryatt?”

“And Mrs. Chichester to meet him!"

“My dear Tita, Mrs. Chichester has a husband somewhere!”

“So she told me,” says Tita.  “But, then, he is so very far off, and in your Society distance counts.”

Rylton regards her with some surprise.  Is she satirical?—­this silly child!

“You will have to correct your ideas about Society,” says he coldly.  “By all means ask Mrs. Chichester here, too; I, for one, prefer not to believe in scandals.”

“One must believe in something,” says Tita.  “I suppose,” pencil poised in hand, “you would like to ask Mr. Gower?”

“Certainly.”

“And his aunt?”

“Certainly not."

“Oh, but I should,” says Tita; “she amuses me.  Do let us ask old Miss Gower!”

“I begin to think you are a wicked child,” says Rylton, laughing, whereon Miss Gower’s name is scrawled down on the list.  “There are the men from the barracks in Merriton; they can always be asked over,” goes on Maurice.  “And now, who else?”

“The Marchmonts!”

“Of course.”  He pauses.  “And then—­there is Mrs. Bethune!”

“Your cousin!  Yes!”

“Shall we ask her?”

“Why should we not ask her?” She lifts one small, delicate, brown hand, and, laying it on his cheek, turns his face to hers.  “Don’t look out of the window; look at me.  Why should we not ask her?”

“My dear girl, there is no answer to such a question as that.”

“No!” She scribbles Mrs. Bethune’s name on her list, and then, “You particularly wish her to be asked?”

“Not particularly.  Certainly not at all if you object to it.”

“Object!  Why should I object?  She is amusing—­she will keep us all alive; she will help you to entertain your people.”

“I should hope you, Tita, would help me to do that.”

“Oh, I have not the air—­the manner!  I shall feel like a guest myself,” says Tita.  She has sprung to her feet, and is now blowing a little feather she had found upon her frock up into the air.  It eludes her, however; she follows it round the small table, but all in vain—­it sinks to the ground.  “What a beast of a feather!” says she.

“I don’t like you to say that,” says Rylton.  “A guest in your own house!”

“You don’t like me to say anything,” says Tita petulantly.  “I told you I was horrid.  Well, I’ll be mistress in my own house, if that will please you.  But,” prophetically, “it won’t.  Do you know, Maurice,” looking straight at him with a defiant little mien, “I’m more glad that I can tell you that I don’t care a ha’penny about you, because if I did you would break my heart.”

“You have a high opinion of me!” says Maurice.  “That I acknowledge.  But, regarding me as you do, I wonder you ever had the courage to marry me!”