She does not throw up her cap this time—perhaps she had seen a little of that laughter before—but she claps her hands joyfully, and pats Rylton's arm afterwards in a bon camarade fashion that seems to amuse him. And is she tired? There is no sense of fatigue, certainly, in the way she runs up the slope again, and flings herself gracefully upon the rug beside Mr. Gower. Mr. Gower has not stirred from that rug since. He seldom stirs. Perhaps he would not be quite so stout if he did.
"You won your game?" says Margaret Knollys, bending towards Tita, with a smile.
Old Lady Eshurst is smiling at her, too.
"Oh yes; how could I help it? Sir Maurice"—with a glance at the latter as he climbs the slope in turn—"plays like an angel."
"Oh no; it is you who do that," says he, laughing.
"Are you an angel, Miss Bolton?" asks Mrs. Bethune, who is standing next Rylton.
He had gone straight to her, but she had not forgiven his playing with the girl at all, and a sense of hatred towards Tita is warming her breast.
"I don't know," says Tita, with a slight grimace. It is not the answer expected. Marian had expected to see her shy, confused; Tita, on the contrary, is looking at her with calm, inquiring eyes. "Do you?" asks she.
"I have not gone into it," says Mrs. Bethune, with as distinct a sneer as she can allow herself.
Mr. Gower laughs.
"You're good at games," says he to Tita.
He might have meant her powers at tennis, he might have meant anything.
"That last game you are thinking of?"
"Decidedly, the last game," says Gower, who laughs again immoderately.
"I don't see what there is to laugh at," says Miss Bolton, with some indignation. "'They laugh who win,' is an old proverb. But you didn't win; you weren't in it."
"I expect I never shall be," says Gower. "Yet lookers-on have their advantage ascribed to them by a pitiful Providence. They see most of the game."
"It is I who should laugh," says Tita, who has not been following him. "I won—we"—looking, with an honest desire to be just to all people, at Sir Maurice—"we won."
"No, no; leave it in the singular," says Maurice, making her a little gesture of self-depreciation.
"You seem very active," says Margaret kindly. "I watched you at golf yesterday. You liked it?"
"Yes; there is so little else to like," says Tita, looking at her, "except my horses and my dogs."
"A horse is the best companion of all," says Mr. Woodleigh, his eyes bent on her charming little face.
"I'm not sure, the dogs are so kind, so affectionate; they want one so," says Tita. "And yet a horse—oh, I do love my last mount—a brown mare! She's lying up now."
"You ride, then?" says Sir Maurice.
"Ride! you bet!" says Tita. She rolls over on the rug, and, resting on her elbows, looks up at him; Lady Rylton watching, shudders. "I've been in the saddle all my life. Just before I came here I had a real good run—my uncle's groom had one horse, I had the other; it was over the downs. I won."
She rests her chin upon her hands.
Lady Rylton's face pales with horror. A race with a groom!
"Your uncle must give you good mounts," says Mr. Woodleigh.
"It is all he does give me," says the girl, with a pout. "Yes; I may ride, but that is all. I never see anybody—there is nobody to see; my uncle knows nobody."
Lady Rylton makes an effort. It is growing too dreadful. She turns to Mrs. Chichester.
"Why don't you play?" asks she.
"Tennis? I hate it; it destroys one's clothes so," says Mrs. Chichester. "And those shoes, they are terrible. If I knew any girls—I never do know them, as a rule—I should beg of them not to play tennis; it is destruction so far as feet go."
"Fancy riding so much as that!" says Mr. Woodleigh, who, with Sir Maurice and the others, has been listening to Tita's stories of hunts and rides gone and done. "Why, how long have you been hunting?"
"Ever since I was thirteen," says Tita.
"Why, that is about your age now, isn't it?" says Gower.
"We lived at Oakdean then," goes on Tita, taking, very properly, no notice of him, "and my father liked me to ride. My cousin was with us there, and he taught me. I rode a great deal before"—she pauses, and her lips quiver; she is evidently thinking of some grief that has entered into her young life and saddened it—"before I went to live with my uncle."
"It was your cousin who taught you to ride, then? Is he a son of the—the uncle with whom you now live?" asks Sir Maurice, who is rather ashamed of exhibiting such interest in her.
"No, no, indeed! He is a son of my aunt's—my father's sister. She married a man in Birmingham—a sugar merchant. I did love Uncle Joe," says Tita warmly.
"No wonder!" says Mrs. Bethune. "I wish I had an uncle a sugar merchant. It does sound sweet."
"I'm not sure that _you _would think my uncle Joe sweet!" says Miss Bolton thoughtfully. "He wasn't good to look at. He had the biggest mouth that ever I saw, and his nose was little and turned up, but I loved him. I love him now, even when he is gone. And one does forget, you know! He said such good things to people, and"—covering her little face with her hands, and bursting into an irrepressible laugh—"he told such funny stories!"
Lady Rylton makes a sudden movement.
"Dear Lady Eshurst, wouldn't you like to come and see the houses?" asks she.
"I am afraid I must be going home," says old Lady Eshurst. "It is very late; you must forgive my staying so long, but your little friend—by-the-bye, is she a friend or relation?"
"A friend!" says Lady Rylton sharply.
"Well, she is so entertaining that I could not bear to go away sooner."
"Yes—yes; she is very charming," says Lady Rylton, as she hurries
Lady Eshurst down the steps that lead to the path below.
Good heavens! If she should hear some of Uncle Joe's funny stories!
She takes Lady Eshurst visibly in tow, and walks her out of hearing.
"What a good seat you must have!" says Mr. Woodleigh presently, who has been dwelling on what Tita has said about her riding.
"Oh, pretty well! Everyone should ride," says Tita indifferently. "I despise a man who can't conquer a horse. I," laughing, "never saw the horse that I couldn't conquer."
"You? Look at your hands!" says Gower, laughing.
"Well, what's the matter with them?" says she. "My cousin, when he was riding, used to say they were made of iron."
"Of velvet, rather."
"No. He said my heart was made of that." She laughs gaily, and suddenly looking up at Rylton, who is looking down at her, she fixes her eyes on his. She spreads her little hands abroad, brown as berries though they are with exposure to all sorts of weather. They are small brown hands, and very delicately shaped. "They are not so bad after all, are they?" says she.
"They are very pretty," smiles Rylton, returning her gaze.
Suddenly for the first time it occurs to him that she has a beauty that is all her own.
"Oh no! there is nothing pretty about me," says Tita.
She gives a sudden shrug of her shoulders. She is still lying on the