Part 55 (1/2)
”On purpose?”
”Yes,” hanging her pretty head; ”I did it to annoy you! You were so--so nasty about Tom the other night--do you remember? So I wanted to make you _really mad_ this time--just for revenge, you know; but, honestly, I didn't mean to be late for breakfast.”
”Didn't you?” drearily.
”No, I didn't; you _must_ believe that.” She goes nearer to him, and slips her hand through his arm. ”Maurice!” whispers she. He makes her no answer. She moves even closer to him, and, leaning her little head against his shoulder, looks up at him. _”Do_ scold me!” says she again. The tender, childish voice touches him; it goes home to his heart--the heart that is so full of another. He looks down at her, and, stooping, lays his lips on hers. It can hardly be called a kiss; yet it satisfies _her_, to whom, as yet, kissing means so little. ”Now I am forgiven,” cries she triumphantly. ”Is _that _your scolding?”
”I told you I couldn't scold you,” says he.
As he says this he sighs heavily.
”What a sigh!” She pushes him from her with both hands. ”After all, I believe you hate me!”
”No, I don't,” says Rylton.
He smiles. After all, why not be friends with her? Had he explained that indifference was the word she should have used for hate, would she be any the wiser?
”No--really?” She has flung herself into a chair, and is looking at him with her hands clasped behind her head. ”Well,” thoughtfully, ”I don't hate you, either. That's a blessing, isn't it?”
”A great one.”
He feels a little piqued, however, at the nonchalance of her manner.
Why should it occur to her that she might hate him? She has, unknowingly certainly, but unquestionably, blocked his way to the fulfilment of his desires, but he---- He changes colour; is he standing in _her_ way, then?
”What was the letter you were reading this morning when I came in?”
”A letter?”
He brings himself back to the present with an effort.
”Yes. It was so interesting,” says she, making him a little malicious grimace, ”that you could not spare a moment from the reading of it to acknowledge my presence.”
”It was from my mother.”
”No wonder it was so engrossing,” says t.i.ta naughtily. ”Well----”
”It isn't well; it is ill,” returns he, laughing. ”She says she is coming to stay with us for a week or so on her way to Lady Sarah's.”
”Why is she coming?”
”For our sins, I suppose. I really don't know any other reason.” He casts an anxious glance at her. ”I am afraid that you won't care about it.”
”Well, I shan't,” says t.i.ta frankly; ”but if she wants to come, there is nothing more to be said. What _I_ am afraid of is that Marian won't like it.”
”Marian?”
”Yes, Marian. It struck me that she was not very fond of your mother. Was I right?”