Rylton turns his eyes from hers with open determination; he steels his heart against her.

“About this cousin,” he says icily.  “He is the one who used to say you had hands like iron, and a heart like velvet?”

“Yes. Fancy you remembering that!” says Tita, a sudden, quick gleam of pleasure dyeing her pretty cheeks quite red.

“I always remember,” returns Rylton distantly.

His tone is a repulse.  The lovely colour fades from her face.

“I’m tired,” says she suddenly, petulantly.  She moves to the other end of the room, and, opening a wardrobe, pretends to make some rearrangements with its contents.  “If you have nothing more to say”—­with perhaps more honesty than politeness—­“I wish you would go away.”

“I have something more to say.”  The very nervousness he is feeling makes his tone unnecessarily harsh.  “I object to your extreme intimacy with your cousin.”

Tita drops the dress she has just taken from the wardrobe, and comes back once more into the full light of the lamp.  Her barer and slender arms are now hanging straight before her, her fingers interlaced; she looks up at him.

“With Tom?"

“With Mr. Hescott.”

“I have known Tom all my life,” defiantly.

“I don’t care about that.  One may know people all one’s life, and yet have very unpleasant things said about one.”

_ “Can_ one——­” She stops suddenly, facing him, her eyes fixed on his; her lips part, her slight little frame quivers as if with eagerness.  It grows quite plain that there is something she desires passionately to say to him—­something terrible—­ but all at once she controls herself; she makes a little gesture with her right hand, as if throwing something from her, and goes on quickly, excitedly:  “What do you mean?  Who has been talking about me?”

“I didn’t say anyone had been talking about you.”

“Yes, you did!  You hinted it, at all events.  Go on.  Tell me who it was.”

“Even if I knew I should not tell you,” says Rylton, who is now white with anger.

He had understood her hesitation of a moment since.  He had known exactly what she wanted to say to him, and unfortunately the pricking of is conscience had only served to add fuel to the fire of his discontent towards her.

“Well, I’ll tell you," says Tita, coming a step closer to him, her eyes blazing.  “It was Mrs. Bethune.  I know that she is no friend of mine.  And I may as well say at once that I detest her. You may like her, but I don’t, and I never shall.  She’s a beast!"

“Tita!”

Her husband stares at her aghast.  The small form seems transfigured.  Has she grown?

“Yes—­a beast! I don’t care what you think.  I’m not afraid of you—­remember that!  I was not even afraid of Uncle George.  I shall never be afraid of anyone in all this wide, wide world!”