And yet—­and yet!  Her face comes back to him.  Could he accuse that face of falsehood?  And another thing:  If she and that cousin of hers were in collusion, would they have so openly defied him, as it were?

No; it is out of the question.  So far as she goes, at all events, there is nothing to complain of.  That she is indifferent to him—­her husband—­is, of course, beyond question.  He himself had arranged all that beforehand—­before his marriage.  Both he and she were to have a loose rein, and there was to be no call for affection on either side.

His mind runs back to those early days when he had asked Tita to marry him.  He had been altogether satisfied with the arrangements then made—­arrangements that left him as free as air, and his wife too.  He had thought with boredom of this marriage, and had grasped at any alleviation of the martyrdom.  And now it is just as he had ordained it.  And yet——­

Tita has disappeared.  Once or twice he had caught a glimpse of her floating round the room with her cousin, but for the past five minutes she has not been en évidence at all.  Sir Maurice, moving out of the recess, is touched by a hand from behind.  He turns.

Marian Bethune, beautiful, more animated than usual, and with her eyes sparkling, smiles up at him.

“How dull you look!” cries she gaily.  “Come out here on the balcony and enjoy the moonlight for awhile.”

She had been standing out there in the shadow, and had heard and seen what had occurred between Tita and her husband, and later on with Tom Hescott.  Rylton follows her.  The soft chill of the air outside attracts him.  It seems to check all at once the bitter anger that is raging in his heart.  It surprises himself that he should be so angry.  After all, what is Tita to him?  A mere name.  And yet——­

Outside here the night looks exquisite.  Star after star one sees decking the heavens with beauty.

    “Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,
    Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.”

Such a night is this, delicate, tender, its charms heightened by a soft low wind that sweeps over the gardens and sends a sigh or two to the balconies above.

“Well!” says Mrs. Bethune.

She had led him to the far end of the balcony, where no seats are, and where, therefore, one may be sure of seclusion—­for the moment, at all events.  She looks up at him.  Some pale pink lamps from behind throw a slight radiance on her—­not too deep a radiance.  They are too far behind for that, but yet enough to soften her, to idealize her, and to render even more delicate the exquisite flesh tints of her face.

She has waited for her answer some time, but is well satisfied that no answer has been forthcoming.  Rylton’s eyes are resting upon hers, as if surprised at this new fairness of hers.  His glance is full of admiration, yet there is something of sadness—­of anger in it, too, that annoys her, in spite of her exultation.  For whom is the anger—­for that little fool he has married?  It seems to her an absurd thing that he should cast a thought, even an angry one, upon his wife when she—­Marian—­is here.