Part 52 (2/2)

There is a tiny dab of mud on her cheek, close to the eye. It is distinctly becoming, and looks more like a Queen Anne patch than anything else.

All the men rise as she enters, except Rylton, who is reading a letter of such deep importance, evidently, that he seems hardly to note his wife's entrance. t.i.ta beckons to them all to resume their seats.

”I'm dreadfully sorry--dreadfully,” says she, in a quick little way.

”I had no idea it was so late. So _good_ of you,” turning to Mrs.

Bethune, who is sitting at the head of the table, ”to take my place!

You see,” looking once again round her, ”when I started I did not mean to go so far.”

”Ah! that is what so often happens,” says Mrs. Bethune, with a queer little glance from under her lids.

There is something so insolent both in her meaning and her voice, that Margaret's face flushes, and she makes a slight movement as if to rise; but Colonel Neilson, who is next her, by a slight gesture restrains her. She looks at Maurice, however, as if wondering why he does not interfere--does not _say_ something; but Maurice seems more than ever buried in his letter. Indeed, beyond one brief glance at his wife, he has taken no notice of her.

Margaret's eyes go back to t.i.ta. Everyone is offering her a seat here or there, and she is shaking her head in refusal. Evidently Mrs. Bethune's remark has gone by her, like the wind unheard; it had not been understood.

”Come and sit here, and have a hot cup of coffee,” says Captain Marryatt.

”No, thank you. I couldn't really. See how muddy I am,” glancing down at her skirt. ”It must have rained a great deal last night. Tom and I ran a race, and this is the result. I must go upstairs and change my things.”

”Certainly, a change would be desirable in many ways,” says old Miss Gower, in her most conscious tone, on which her nephew, who is helping himself to cold pie on the sideboard, turns and looks at her as if he would like to rend her.

”Yes, run away, t.i.ta; I'll be up with you in a moment,” says Margaret gently, fondly. ”I am afraid you must feel very damp.”

”I feel very uncomfortable, any way,” says t.i.ta, though without _arriere pensee_. Mrs. Chichester, dropping her handkerchief, gets her laugh over before she picks it up again. t.i.ta moves towards the door, and then looks back. ”Maurice,” says she, with a courage born of defiance, ”will you send me up some breakfast to my room?”

Sir Maurice turns at once to the butler.

”See that breakfast is sent up to Lady Rylton,” says he calmly.

A faint colour rises to t.i.ta's forehead. She goes straight to the door. Randal Gower, who is still at the sideboard, hurries to open it for her.

”There's a regular ta-ra-ra waiting for _you,”_ says he, ”in the near bimeby.”

t.i.ta gives him an indignant glance as she goes by, which that youth accepts with a beaming smile.

t.i.ta has hardly been in her room twenty minutes, has hardly, indeed, had time to change her clothes, when Margaret knocks at the door.

”May I come in?” asks she.

”Oh! come in. Come in!” cries t.i.ta, who has just dismissed her maid.

She runs to Margaret and kisses her on both cheeks. ”Good-morning,”

says she. And then saucily, ”You have come to read me a lecture?”

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