After this astounding speech there is silence for a moment or two.  Then Rylton, in spite of himself, laughs.  And after a faint struggle with herself, Tita joins in his mirth.  Emboldened by this departure, and really anxious to make it up with her, Rylton bids her good-night again, and this time would have added a kiss to his adieu.  But Tita pushed him away.

“Kiss you?  Not likely!” says she scornfully; “I shall never want to kiss you again in all my life!”

CHAPTER XIX.

HOW RYLTON’S HEART CONDEMNS HIM.  AND HOW, AS HE WALKS, A SERPENT STINGS HIM.  AND HOW HE IS RECOVERED OF HIS WOUND.  AND HOW THE LITTLE RIFT IS MENDED—­BUT WITH TOO FINE THREAD.

Rylton had gone to his own room in a strange frame of mind.  He called it aggrieved, but, au fond, there were some grains of remorse at the bottom of it.  He had married her, and in spite of all things was bound to protect her.  That sad little touch of hers, “Perhaps everyone hates me,” had gone to his heart.

There were other things that had gone home too.  Little things, but bitter to the senses of one highly cultured; and of course the Ryltons had been accustomed to the best of things always.  Tita’s phrases grated a good deal.  That “make a fool of yourself” had sunk deep, and there were so many other extraordinary expressions.  The women of his own world very often used them in fun, but Tita used them in earnest:  that made all the difference.

And yet—­he was sorry that he had vexed her.  It kept him sleepless an hour almost, dwelling upon this, and even in the morning, when he awoke, it was the first thought that assailed him.

* * * * *

It is in truth a lovely morning.  Sweet as June, and fresh as “Fresh May.”

Rylton, whilst dressing, tells himself he wishes to goodness he had been clever enough to make it up with his wife before going to bed last night.  Nothing so horrid as little coldnesses, little bickerings before one’s guests—­and Tita is so untutored that probably she will make it rather unbearable for him during breakfast.

He has underrated Tita, however.  She is almost the first down, and gets through the morning salutations to her guests in the gayest style, and takes possession of the teapot and the huge old urn quite calmly.  She has delivered up the coffee to Margaret, to whom she always look as a sure ally.  So calm, so pretty in her demeanour, that Rylton, taking heart of grace, throws to her a word or two—­to his utter chagrin!

Not that the words are not responded to; not one of them, indeed, but is answered, yet Tita’s eyes had not gone with her words.  They had been downcast; busied, presumably, with the tea-cup now, or a smile to her neighbour on her left, or a chiding to the fox-terrier at her knee.  She gives Rylton the impression, at all events, that she will be civil to him in the future, but that she regrets the fact that she has to be.