She has been leaning upon the rails of the balcony, and now draws closer to him.

“Why waste a thought on her?” says she in a low tone that is almost a whisper.

“On her!  Who?” asks he quickly, and with an evident start.

“Oh!” with a shrug.  “If you don’t wish to go into it.”

“But into what?”

He frowns.  He is feeling very irritable still, in spite of his admiration of her beauty.

She makes a little gesture of contempt.

“If you will not acknowledge me as even your friend.”

“You!” says he sharply.  “You! Are you my friend?”

There is a pause.  She looks away from him.  And then——­

“Oh, more than that!” cries she in a low but passionate tone. "Far more!”

She lays her hand upon her throat, and looks up to heaven.  The moonlight, striking upon her as she so stands, makes her fairness even greater.

“Marian!  You mean——­”

The past rushes in upon him.  He has turned to her.

“No! no!  It is nothing,” says she, with a little laugh that is full of pain.  She makes a movement that almost repulses him.  “But I am your friend, if nothing else; and the world—­the world is beginning to talk about you, Maurice!”

“About me!”

He has drawn back with a sharp pang.  She sees that this new idea that touches him, or that little fool (as she has designated Tita in her mind), has destroyed his interest in her for the moment.

“Yes!  Be warned in time.”

“Who is daring to talk about me?”

“Not about you directly; but about Lady Rylton.”

Some strange feeling compels him to put a fresh question for her, though he knows what the answer will be.

“My mother?”

“This is unworthy of you,” says Marian slowly.  “No; I meant Tita!”

CHAPTER XXIII.

HOW MARIAN FIGHTS FOR MASTERY; AND HOW THE BATTLE GOES; AND HOW CHANCE BEFRIENDS THE ENEMY.

“Tita!  You wrong her!” says he.  “Why speak of her?  You should not; you always disliked her.”

“True.”  She is silent for a moment, looking down into the silent garden.  Then she lifts her head, and gazes straight at him.  “You know why I disliked her.  You must!  You—­you only.  Some instinct from the very first warned me against her.  I knew.  I knew she would rob me of all that life had left me.  I knew”—­with a quick, long sob—­“she would take you from me!”

Rylton, who has been leaning on the railings beside her, raises himself, and stands staring at her, a terrible anguish in his eyes.

“Marian—­think,” says he hoarsely.

“Oh, why did you marry her?” cries she, smiting her hands together as if half distracted.  “There was always so much time—­time!”

“There was none.”

“There is always time!” She is silent for a moment, and then, with an increase of passion in her tone, repeats her question:  “Why did you marry her?”