“Depraved, you said!” He has recovered out of that first wild passion of his, and is now gazing at her with a certain degree of composure.  “Depraved!  I will not have that word used.  She is young—­thoughtless—­foolish, if you will, but not depraved!”

“You can delude yourself just as long as you like,” returns she, shrugging her shoulders, “but, all the same, I warn you.  I——­”

She stops suddenly; voices and steps, coming nearer, check her words.  She draws a little away from Rylton, and, lifting her fan, waves it indolently to and fro.  The voice belongs to Minnie Hescott, who, with her partner, has come out to the balcony, and now moves down the steps to the lighted gardens below.  Mrs. Bethune would have been glad at the thought that Miss Hescott had not seen her; but there had been one moment when she knew the girl’s eyes had penetrated through the dusk where she stood, and had known her.

Not that it mattered much.  The Hescott girl was of little consequence at any time.  Yet sharp, too!  Perhaps, after all, she is of consequence.  She has gone, however—­and it is a mere question whether she had seen her with Sir Maurice or not.  Of course, the girl would be on her brother’s side, and if the brother is really in love with that little silly fool—­and if a divorce was to be thought of—­the girl might make herself troublesome.

Mrs. Bethune, leaning over the railings lost in such thoughts, suddenly sees something.  She raises herself, and peers more keenly into the soft light below.  Yes—­yes, surely!

But Minnie Hescott, who has gone down the steps into the garden, has seen something too—­that fair, fierce face leaning over the balcony!  The eyes are following Tita and her brother, Tom Hescott.

CHAPTER XXIV.

HOW RYLTON MAKES A MOST DISHONOURABLE BET, AND HOW HE REPENTS OF IT; AND HOW, THOUGH HE WOULD HAVE WITHDRAWN FROM IT, HE FINDS HE CANNOT.

“You have said,” says Rylton, when the steps have ceased, “that you would warn me about my wife.  Of what?”

She shrugs her shoulders.

“Ah, you are so violent—­you take things so very unpleasantly—­that one is quite afraid to speak.”

“You mean something”—­sternly.  “I apologize to you if I was rough a moment since.  I—­it was so sudden—­I forgot myself, I think.”

“To be able to forget is a most excellent thing—­at times," says she, with a curious smile, her eyes hidden.  “If I were you I should cultivate it.”

“It?”

“The power to forget—­at times!"

“Speak,” says he.  “It is not a moment for sneers.  Of what would you warn me?”

“I have told you before, but you took it badly.”

“Words—­words,” says he, frowning.

“Would you have deeds?” She breaks into a low laugh.  “Oh, how foolish you are!  Why don’t you let things go?”