Part 9 (2/2)

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 s.e.x?”

”I _never_ said that!” says t.i.ta, 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 t.i.ta, appealing to Sir Maurice.

”I hope not,” returns he, laughing. ”Certainly I did not hear it.”

”And certainly he didn't either,” says t.i.ta 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 t.i.ta, 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.

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