“What is it?” asks Mrs. Bethune, making room for him in the recess of the window that is so cosily cushioned.  “The cousin?”

“What cousin?” demands Sir Maurice, making a bad fight, however; his glance is still concentrated on the upper part of the room.

“Why, her cousin,” says Mrs. Bethune, laughing.  She is looking younger than ever and radiant.  She is looking, indeed, beautiful.  There is not a woman in the room to compare with her; and few in all England outside it.

The past week has opened out to her a little path that she feels she may tread with light feet.  The cousin, the handsome, the admirable cousin!  What a chance he affords for—­vengeance! vengeance on that little fool over there, who has dared to step in and rob her—­Marian Bethune—­of her prey!

“Haven’t you noticed?” says she, laughing lightly, and bending so close to Rylton as almost to touch his ear with her lips.  “No?  Oh, silly boy!”

“What do you mean?” asks Rylton a little warmly.

“And after so many days!  Why, we all have guessed it long ago.”

“I’m not good at conundrums,” coldly.

“But this is such an easy one.  Why, the handsome cousin is in love with the charming little wife, that is all.”

“You say everyone has been talking about it,” says Rylton.  His manner is so strange, so unpleasant, that Marian takes warning.

“Ah!  That was an exaggeration.  One does talk much folly, you know.  No—­no!  It was I only who said it—­at least”—­hesitating—­“I think so.”  She pauses to let her hesitation sink in, and to be as fatal as it can be.  “But you know I have always your interests at heart, and so I see things that, perhaps, others do not see.”

“One may see more than——­”

“True—­true; and of course I am wrong.  No doubt I imagined it all.  But, even if it should be so,” laughing and patting his arm softly, “who need wonder?  Your wife is so pretty—­those little things often are pretty—­and he is her cousin—­they grew up together, in a sense.”

“No, I think not.”

“At all events, they were much together when she was growing from child to girl.  And old associations—­they——­” She stops as if some dart has struck her.  Rylton looks at her.

“Are you ill?” says he sharply.  “You look pale.”

“Nothing, nothing.”  She recovers herself and smiles at him, but her face is still white.  “A thought, a mere thought—­it cannot be only Tita and her cousin who have old associations, who have—­memories."

Her eyes are full of tears.  She leans toward him.  This time her lips do touch him—­softly her lips touch his cheek.  The curtains hide them.

“Have you no memories?” says she.

“Marian!  This is madness,” says Rylton, turning suddenly to her.  In a sense, though without a gesture, he repulses her.  She looks back at him; rage is in her heart at first, but, seeing him as he is, rage gives place to triumph.  He is actually livid.  She has moved him, then.  She still has power over him.  Oh for time, time only!  And he will be hers again, soul and body, and that small supplanter shall be lowered to the very dust!