“That is an unkind little speech!” says he gently.  “It reminds me that it was you who set me up in the world.”

This shaft tells.

Tita colours warmly; her generous soul shrinks from such an accusation.

“I didn’t mean that,” says she; “you know very well I didn’t.  I wish,” petulantly, “you would go away; I want to read.”

“Well, I’m going,” says Rylton.  As a means of carrying out this promise, he props himself up with a branch of the tree on which she is sitting—­a branch on a level with her dainty little silk-clad feet.  He has leant both his arms on it, and now involuntarily his eyes rest upon her shoes.  “What beautiful feet you have!” says he slowly.

It is a perfectly Machiavellian speech.  Tita’s feet are beyond argument, and there is not a woman in this world, any way, who has beautiful feet, who doesn’t want everyone to tell her all about them.

“No, no; they’re nothing,” says she, making a pretence of tucking up the much-maligned feet in question under her frock, which basely fails to help her.

But even as she says this she smiles—­reluctantly, no doubt; but, still, she does smile—­and casts a glance at Rylton from under her long lashes.  It is a delightful look—­half pleased, half defiant, wholly sweet.

“Forgive me, Tita!” says her husband quickly.

“I don’t want you to talk to me like that,” says she, with a frown.

“But I must say that.  Well, will you?”

“I don’t know.”  She stops, and again casts that pretty glance at him.  “At all events, you will have to promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“No; I’m in earnest.”

“So am I.”

He ventures now to take one of the charming feet so close to him into one of his hands, and strokes the instep softly with the other.

“Oh no! you are never in earnest with me,” says the girl.  “But what I want you to say is, that you won’t do it again.”

“Do what?”

“Scold me.”

“Never—­never!” says Rylton.

“That’s a promise, mind.”

“I shall mind it.”

“Very well—­I forgive you.”

“Let me bring you back to Mother Earth, then,” says Rylton.

“No, thank you; I can take myself down.”

“That’s being unkind to yourself.  Take down your friends if you like, but spare yourself.”

“I should like to take you down,” says she maliciously.

“Am I your friend, then?”

“No—­no, indeed!”

“Well——­”

He pauses and looks at her.  All at once it seems to him that perhaps he is her friend—­a friend—­a mere friend!  But could a man who loved another woman be an honest friend to his wife?

“Are you?” asks Tita.

“Yes.  Didn’t I want to take you down just now?”

At this she gives in and laughs a little.  He laughs too.