Part 25 (1/2)

”What, then?”

”Well, we ought to decide at once who we are going to ask for the rest of the shooting. The preserves are splendid, and it seems quite a sin to let them go to waste. Of course I know a lot of men I could ask, but there should be a few women, too, for you.”

”Why for me? I like men a great deal better,” says t.i.ta audaciously.

”Well, you shouldn't! And, besides, you have some friends of your won to be asked.”

”Your friends will do very well.”

”Nonsense!” with a touch of impatience. ”It is you and _your_ friends who are first to be considered; afterwards we can think of mine.”

”I have no friends,” says t.i.ta carelessly.

”You have your uncle, at all events; he might like----”

”Oh, don't be an a.s.s,” says Lady Rylton.

She delivers this excellent advice with a prompt.i.tude and vigour that does her honour. Rylton stares at her for a moment, and then gives way to amus.e.m.e.nt.

”I shan't be if I can help it,” says he; ”but there are often so many difficulties in the way.” He hesitates as if uncertain, and then goes on. ”By the way, t.i.ta, you shouldn't give yourself the habit of saying things like that.”

”Like what?”

”Well, telling a fellow not to be an a.s.s, you know. It doesn't matter to me, of course, but I heard you say something like that to old Lady Warbeck yesterday, and she seemed quite startled.”

”Did she? Do her good!” says t.i.ta, making a charming little face at him. ”Nothing like electricity nowadays. It'll quite set her up again. Add _years_ to her life.”

”Still, she wouldn't like it, perhaps.”

”Having years added to her life?”

”No; your slang.”

”She likes _me_, any way,” says t.i.ta nonchalantly, ”so it doesn't matter about the slang. The last word she mumbled at me through her old false teeth was that she hoped I'd come over and see her every Tuesday that I had at my command (I'm not going to have _many_), because I reminded her of some granddaughter who was now in heaven, or at the Antipodes--it's all the same.”

She pauses to catch a fly--dexterously, and with amazing swiftness, in the palm of her hand--that has been buzzing aimlessly against the window-pane. Having looked at it between her fingers, she flings it into the warm air outside.

”So you see,” continues she triumphantly, ”it's a good thing to startle people. They fall in love with you at once.”

Here, as if some gay little thought has occurred to her, she lowers her head and looks at her dainty finger-nails, then up at Rylton from under half-closed lids.

”What a good thing I didn't try to startle _you!”_ says she. _”You_ might have fallen in love with me, too.”

She waits for a second as it were, just time enough to let her see the nervous movement of his brows, and then--she laughs.

”I've escaped that bore,” says she, nodding her head. She throws herself into a big chair. ”And now, as the parsons say, 'to continue'; you were advising me to ask----”

”Your uncle.”