Part 15 (1/2)

”You have been playing tennis all day,” says Rylton. ”You must be tired. It is bad for you to fatigue yourself so much. You have had enough dancing for awhile. Come and sit with me. I, too, am tired.”

”Well, for awhile,” says she reluctantly.

It is with evident regret that she takes every step that leads her away from the dancing-room.

The larger conservatory is but dimly lit with lamps covered with pale pink shades. The soft musical tinkling of a fountain, hidden somewhere amongst the flowering shrubs, adds a delicious sense of coolness to the air. The delicate perfume of heliotrope mingles with the breath of the roses, yellow and red and amber, that, standing in their pots, nod their heads drowsily. The begonias, too, seem half dead with sleep. The drawing-room beyond is deserted.

”Now, is not this worth a moment's contemplation?” says Rylton, pressing her gently into a deep lounging chair that seems to swallow up her little figure. ”It has its own charm, hasn't it?”

He has flung himself into another chair beside her, and is beginning to wonder if he might have a cigarette. He might almost have believed himself content, but for that hateful monotonous voice at his ear.

”Oh, it _is_ pretty,” says t.i.ta, glancing round her. ”It is lovely.

It reminds me of Oakdean.”

”Oakdean?”

”My old home,” says she softly--”where I lived with my father.”

”Ah, tell me something of your life,” says Rylton kindly.

No idea of making himself charming to her is in his thoughts. He has, indeed, but one idea, and that is to encourage her to talk, so that he himself may enjoy the bliss of silence.

”There is nothing,” says she quickly. ”It has been a stupid life. I was very happy at Oakdean, when,” hesitating, ”papa was alive; but now I have to live at Rickfort, with Uncle George, and,” simply, ”I'm not happy.”

”What's the matter with Rickfort?”

”Nothing. It's Uncle George that there is something the matter with.

Rickfort is my house, too, but I hate it; it is so gloomy. I'm sure,” with a shrug of her shoulders, ”Uncle George might have it, and welcome, if only he wouldn't ask _me_ to live there with him.”

”Uncle George seems to make a poor show,” says Rylton.

”He's horrid!” says Miss Bolton, without reservation. ”He's a _beast!_ He hates me, and I hate him.”

”Oh, no!” says Rylton, roused a little.

The child's face is so earnest. He feels a little amused, and somewhat surprised. She seems the last person in the world capable of hatred.

”Yes, I do,” says she, nodding her delightful little head, ”and he knows it. People say a lot about family resemblances, but it seems wicked to think Uncle George is papa's brother. For my part,”

recklessly, ”I don't believe it.”

”Perhaps he's a changeling,” says Sir Maurice.

”Oh, don't be silly,” says Miss Bolton. ”Now, listen to this.” She leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her eyes glistening with wrath. ”I had a terrier, a _lovely_ one, and she had six puppies, and, would you believe it! he drowned every one of them--said they were ill-bred, or something. And they weren't, they _couldn't_ have been; they were perfectly beautiful, and my darling Scrub fretted herself nearly to death after them. I begged almost on my knees that he would leave her _one_, and he wouldn't.” Her eyes are now full of tears. ”He is a beast!” says she. This last word seems almost comic, coming from her pretty childish lips.

”Well, but you see,” says Rylton, ”some men pride themselves on the pedigree of their dogs, and perhaps your uncle----”

”Oh, if you are going to defend him!” says she, rising with a stiff little air.

”I'm not--I'm not, indeed,” says Rylton. ”Nothing could excuse his refusing you that one puppy. But in other ways he is not unkind to you?”