Part 8 (1/2)

”Game and set,” cries t.i.ta at the top of her young voice, from the other end the court. It would be useless to pretend she doesn't _shout_ it. She is elated--happy. She has won. She tears off the little soft round cap that, defiant of the sun, she wears, and flings it sky-high, catching it deftly as it descends upon the top of her dainty head, a _little_ sideways. Her pretty, soft, fluffy hair, cut short, and curled all over her head by Mother Nature, is flying a little wildly across her brows, her large gray eyes (that sometimes are so nearly black) are brilliant. Altogether she is just a little, a _very_ little, p.r.o.nounced in her behaviour. Her opponents, people who have come over to The Place for the day, whisper something to each other, and laugh a little. After all, they have lost--perhaps they are somewhat spiteful. Lady Rylton, sitting on the terrace above, bites her lips. What an impossible girl! and yet how rich! Things must be wrong somewhere, when Fate showers money on such a little ill-bred creature.

”How funny she is!” says Mrs. Chichester, who is sitting near Lady Rylton, a guest at The Place in this house-party, this last big entertainment, that is to make or mar its master. Lady Rylton had organized it, and Sir Maurice, who never contradicted her, and who had not the slightest idea of the real meaning of it, had shrugged his shoulders. After all, let her have her own way to the last.

There would be enough to pay the debts and a little over for her; and for him, poverty, a new life, and emanc.i.p.ation. He is tired of his mother's rule. ”And how small!” goes on Mrs. Chichester, a tall young woman with light hair and queer eyes, whose husband is abroad with his regiment. ”Like a doll. I love dolls; don't you, Captain Marryatt?”

”Are _you_ a doll?” asks Captain Marryatt, who is leaning over her.

He is always leaning over her!

”I never know what I am,” says Mrs. Chichester frankly, her queer eyes growing a little queerer. ”But Miss Bolton, how delightful she is! so natural, and Nature is always so--so----”

”Natural!” supplies Mr. Gower, who is lying on a rug watching the game below.

”Oh, get out!” says Mrs. Chichester, whose manners are not her strong point.

She is sitting on a garden chair behind him, and she gives him a little dig in the back with her foot as she speaks.

”Don't! I'm bad there!” says he.

”I believe you are bad everywhere,” says she, with a pout.

”Then you believe wrong! My heart is a heart of gold,” says Mr.

Gower ecstatically.

”I'd like to see it,” says Mrs. Chichester, who is not above a flirtation with a man whom she knows is beyond temptation; and truly Randal Gower is hard to get at!

”Does that mean that you would gladly see me dead?” asks he. ”Oh, cruel woman!”

”I'm tired of seeing you as you are, any way,” says she, tilting her chin. ”Why don't you fall in love with somebody, for goodness'

sake?”

”Well, I'm trying,” says Mr. Gower, ”I'm trying hard; but,” looking at her, ”I don't seem to get on. You don't encourage me, you know, and I'm very shy!”

”There, don't be stupid,” says Mrs. Chichester, seeing that Marryatt is growing a little enraged. ”We were talking of Miss Bolton. We were saying----”

”That she was Nature's child.”

”Give me Nature!” says Captain Marryatt, breaking into the _tete-a-tete_ a little sulkily. ”Nothing like it.”

”Is that a proposal?” demands Mr. Gower, raising himself on his elbow, and addressing him with deep interest. ”It cannot be _Mrs._ Bolton you refer to, as she is unfortunately dead. Nature's child, however, is still among us. Shall I convey your offer to her?”

”Yes, shall he?” asks Mrs. Chichester.

She casts a teasing glance at her admirer; a little amused light has come into her green-gray eyes.

”I should think _you,_ Randal, would be the fitting person to propose to her, considering how you haunt her footsteps day and night,” says a strange voice.

It comes from a tall, gaunt old lady, who, with ringlets flying, advances towards the group. She is a cousin of the late Sir Maurice, and an aunt of Gower's, from whom much is to be expected by the latter at her death. There is therefore, as you see, a cousins.h.i.+p between the Gowers and the Ryltons.

”My dear aunt, is that you?” says Mr. Gower with enthusiasm. ”Come and sit here; _do,_ just here _beside_ me!”