Part 9 (1/2)

Gower looks at her.

”Yes, you're right,” says he. ”To be original--honestly original--is the thing nowadays. Have you noticed when she laughs? Those little slender shoulders of hers actually shake.”

”My _dear_ Mr. Gower,” says Mrs. Bethune, ”do spare us! I'm sure you must be portraying Miss Bolton wrongly. Emotion--to betray emotion--how vulgar!”

”I like emotion,” says Mr. Gower calmly; ”I'm a perfect ma.s.s of it myself. Have you noticed Miss Bolton's laugh, Rylton?” to Sir Maurice, who had come up a moment ago, and had been listening to Mrs. Bethune's last remark. ”It seems to run all through her. Not an inch that doesn't seem to enjoy it.”

”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.

t.i.ta 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 gra.s.s, t.i.ta 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 t.i.ta, 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 gra.s.s.”

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 t.i.ta 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 t.i.ta, 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 t.i.ta, with another glance.

Rylton, who is listening, laughs.