Part 10 (2/2)

”I don't know,” says t.i.ta, with a slight grimace. It is not the answer expected. Marian had expected to see her shy, confused; t.i.ta, 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 t.i.ta.

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 t.i.ta, 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 t.i.ta, 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 t.i.ta. ”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 t.i.ta. 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 n.o.body to see; my uncle knows n.o.body.”

Lady Rylton makes an effort. It is growing _too_ dreadful. She turns to Mrs. Chichester.

”Why don't you play?” asks she.

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