“She has no manners—­none!" says Lady Rylton.  “She——­”

“Ah, is that you, Lady Rylton?” cries the small creature on the terrace, having caught a glimpse of her hostess through the window.

“Yes, come in—­come in!” cries Lady Rylton, changing her tone at once, and smiling and beckoning to the girl with long fingers.  “I hope you have not been fatiguing yourself on the tennis-courts, you dearest child!”

Her tones are cooing.

“I have won, at all events!” says Tita, jumping in over the window-sill.  “Though Mr. Gower,” glancing back at her companion, “won’t acknowledge it.”

“Why should I acknowledge it?” says the stout young man.  “It’s folly to acknowledge anything.”

“But the truth is the truth!” says the girl, facing him.

“Oh, no; on the contrary, it’s generally a lie,” says he.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” says Miss Bolton, turning her back on him, which proceeding seems to fill the stout young man’s soul with delight.

“Do come and sit down, dear child; you look exhausted,” says Lady Rylton, still cooing.

“I’m not,” says Tita, shaking her head.  “Tennis is not so very exhausting—­is it, Mrs. Bethune?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure.  It seems to have exhausted your hair, at all events,” says Mrs. Bethune, with her quick smile.  “I think you had better go upstairs and settle it; it is very untidy.”

“Is it?  Is it?” says Tita.

She runs her little fingers through her pretty short locks, and gazes round.  Her eyes meet Margaret’s.

“No, no,” says the latter, laughing.  “It looks like the hair of a little girl.  You,” smiling, "are a little girl.  Go away and finish your fight with Mr. Gower.”

“Yes.  Come!  Miss Knollys is on my side.  She knows I shall win,” says the stout young man; and, whilst disputing with him at every step, Tita disappears.

“What a girl!  No style, no manners,” says Lady Rylton; “and yet I must receive her as a daughter.  Fancy living with that girl!  A silly child, with her hair always untidy, and a laugh that one can hear a mile off.  Yet it must be done.”

“After all, it is Maurice who will have to live with her,” says Mrs. Bethune.

“Oh, I hope not,” says Margaret quickly.

“Why?” asks Lady Rylton, turning to her with sharp inquiry.

“It would never do,” says Margaret with decision.  “They are not suited to each other.  Maurice! and that baby! It is absurd!  I should certainly not counsel Maurice to take such a step as that!”

“Why not?  Good heavens, Margaret, I hope you are not in love with him, too!” says Lady Rylton.

“Too?”

Margaret looks blank.

“She means me,” says Mrs. Bethune, with a slight, insolent smile.  “You know, don’t you, how desperately in love with Maurice I am?”

“I know nothing,” says Miss Knollys, a little curtly.