* * * * *

“Oh, how delightful!  The very thing,” says Mrs. Chichester, clapping her hands.

The conversation at the other end of the room is growing merrier; Tita, in the midst of a small group, has evidently been suggesting something in a most animated fashion.

“We should have to put all the things back,” says Minnie Hescott, glancing round her at the small chairs and tables that abound.

“Not at all—­not at all,” says Tita gaily; “we could go into the smaller dancing-room and have it there.”

“Oh, of course!  Splendid idea!” says Minnie.

She is a tall, handsome young creature, standing fully five feet five in her dainty little black silk stockings.  Her eyes are dark and almond-shaped like her brother’s, and there is a little droop at the far corners of the lids that adds singularly to their beauty; it gives them softness.  Perhaps this softness had not been altogether meant, for Mother Nature had certainly not added gentleness to the many gifts she had given Miss Hescott at her birth.  Not that the girl is of a nature to be detested; it is only that she is strong, intolerant, and self-satisfied.  She grates a little.  Her yea is always yea, and her nay, nay.  She would always prefer the oppressed to the oppressor, unless, perhaps, the oppressor might chance to be useful to herself.  She likes useful people.  Yet, with all this, she is of a merry nature, and very popular with most of her acquaintances.  Friends, in the strictest sense, she has none.  She doesn’t permit herself such luxuries.

She had been at once attracted by Tita.  Naturally Tita would be useful to her, so she has adopted her on the spot.  Baronets’ wives are few and far between upon her visiting list, and to have an actual cousin for one of them sounds promising.  Tita will probably be the means of getting her into the Society for which she longs; therefore Tita is to be cultivated.  She had told Tom that he must be very specially delightful to Tita; Tom, so far, has seemed to find no difficulty in obeying her.  To him, indeed, Tita is once more the little merry, tiny girl whom he had taught to ride and drive in those old, good, past, sweet days, when he used to spend all his vacations with his uncle.

“Will you come and help us?” says Tita, turning to Gower.

That young man spreads his arms abroad as if in protestation.

“What a question from you to me!” says he reproachfully.

    “‘Call, and I follow; I follow, though I die!’”

“You’re too silly for anything,” returns she most ungratefully, turning her back upon him.

“‘Twas ever thus,’” says Mr. Gower, who seems to be in a poetical mood.  “Yet what have I done?”

“Oh, nothing—­nothing!” cries Tita petulantly.  “It is only the day!  Surely it would depress anyone!”

Her eyes wandered down the room, and are now fixed upon the curtains that hide the window where Mrs. Bethune and her husband are conversing.