"Well, there aren't _many _inches," says Sir Maurice, with am amused air.
"And the laugh itself—so gay."
"You are en enthusiast," says Sir Maurice, who is standing near Mrs.
Bethune.
"My dear fellow, who wouldn't be, in such a cause?" says the young cavalryman, with a rather conscious laugh.
"Here she is," says Mrs. Chichester, who is one of those people whom
Nature has supplied with eyes behind and before.
Tita running up the slope at this moment like a young deer—a steep embankment that would have puzzled a good many people—puts an effectual end to the conversation. Mr. Gower graciously deigning to give her half of his rug, she sinks upon it gladly. She likes Gower.
Lady Rylton calls to her.
"Not on the grass, Tita dearest," cries she, in her little shrill, old-young voice. "Come here to me, darling. Next to me on this seat. Marian," to Mrs. Bethune, who has been sitting on the garden-chair with her, "you can make a little room, eh?"
"A great deal," says Marian.
She rises.
"Oh no! don't stir. Not for me," says Tita, making a little gesture to her to reseat herself. "No, thank you, Lady Rylton; I shall stay here. I'm quite happy here. I like sitting on the grass."
She makes herself a little more comfortable where she is, regardless of the honour Lady Rylton would have done her—regardless, too, of the frown with which her hostess now regards her.
Mr. Gower turns upon her a beaming countenance.
"What you really mean is," says he, "that you like sitting near me."
"Indeed I do not," says Tita indignantly.
"My dear girl, think. Am I to understand, then, that you don't like sitting near me?"
"Ah, that's a different thing," says Tita, with a little side-glance at him that shows a disposition to laughter.
"You see! you see!" says Mr. Gower triumphantly—he has a talent for teasing. "Then you do wish to sit beside me! And why not?" He expands his hands amiably. "Could you be beside a more delightful person?"
"Maybe I could," says Tita, with another glance.
Rylton, who is listening, laughs.
His laugh seems to sting Mrs. Bethune to her heart. She turns to him, and lets her dark eyes rest on his.
"What a little flirt!" says she contemptuously.
"Oh no! a mere child," returns he.
"Miss Bolton! What an answer!" Gower is now at the height of his enjoyment. "And after last night, too; you must remember what you said to me last night."
"Last night?" She is staring at him with a small surprised face—a delightful little face, as sweet as early spring. "What did I say to you last night?"
"And have you forgotten?" Mr. Gower has thrown tragedy into his voice. "Already? Do you mean to tell me that you don't recollect saying to me that you preferred me to all the rest of my sex?"
"I never said that!" says Tita, with emphasis; "never! never! Why should I say that?"
She looks at Gower as if demanding an answer.
"I'm not good at conundrums," says he. "Ask me another."
"No; I won't," says she_. "Why?"_
Upon this Mr. Gower rolls himself over in the rug, and covers his head. It is plain that answers are not to be got out of him.
"Did I say that?" says Tita, appealing to Sir Maurice.
"I hope not," returns he, laughing. "Certainly I did not hear it."
"And certainly he didn't either," says Tita with decision.
"After that," says Gower, unrolling himself, "I shall retire from public life; I shall give myself up to"—he pauses and looks round; a favourite ladies' paper is lying on the ground near him—"to literature."
He turns over on his side, and apparently becomes engrosses in it.
"Have you been playing, Maurice?" asks Mrs. Bethune presently.
Her tone is cold. That little speech of his to Tita, uttered some time ago, "I hope not," had angered her.
"No," returns he as coldly.
He is on one of his uncertain moods with regard to her. Distrust, disbelief, a sense of hopelessness—all are troubling him.
"What a shame, Sir Maurice!" says Mrs. Chichester, leaning forward. As I have hinted, she would have flirted with a broomstick. "And you, who are our champion player."
"I'll play now if you will play with me," says Sir Maurice gallantly.
"A safe answer," looking at him with a pout, and through half-closed lids. She finds that sort of glance effective sometimes. "You know I don't play."
"Not that game," says Mr. Gower, who never can resist a thrust.
"I thought you were reading your paper," says Mrs. Chichester sharply. "Come, what's in it? I don't believe," scornfully, "you are reading it at all."
"I am, however," says Mr. Gower. "These ladies' papers are so full of information. I'm quite enthralled just now. I've got on to the Exchange and Mart business, and it's too exciting for words. Just listen to this: 'Two dozen old tooth-brushes (in good preservation) would be exchanged for a gold bangle (unscratched). Would not be sent on approval (mind, it must not be set scratched! good old toothbrushes!) without deposit of ten shillings. Address, 'Chizzler, office of this paper.'"
"It isn't true. I don't believe a word of it," says Tita, making a snatch at the paper.
"My dear girl, why not? Two dozen old toothbrushes. Old toothbrushes, you notice. Everything old now goes for a large sum, except," thoughtfully, "aunts."
He casts a lingering glance round, but providentially Miss Gower has disappeared.
"But toothbrushes! Show me that paper."
"Do you, then, disbelieve in my word?"
"Nobody could want a toothbrush."
"Some people want them awfully," says Mr. Gower. "Haven't you noticed?"
But here Sir Maurice sees it his duty to interfere.
"Miss Bolton, will you play this next set with me?" says he, coming up to Tita.
"Oh, I should love it!" cries she. "You are so good a player. Do get us some decent people to play against, though; I hate a weak game."
"Well, come, we'll try and manage it," says he, amused at her enthusiasm.
They move away together.
CHAPTER VI.
HOW GAMES WERE PLAYED, "OF SORTS"; AND HOW TITA WAS MUCH HARRIED, BUT HOW SHE BORE HERSELF VALIANTLY, AND HOW, NOT KNOWING OF HER VICTORIES, SHE WON ALL THROUGH.
There had been no question about it; it had been a walk-over. Even Lord Eshurst and Miss Staines, who are considered quite crack people at tennis in this part of the county, had not had a chance. Tita had been everywhere; she seemed to fly. Every ball caught, and every ball so well planted. Rylton had scarcely been in it, though a good player. That little thing was here