Part 71 (2/2)

This prettily, and with a glance round her as good as an invitation for next year.

”I know you, Minnie” (to her cousin), ”are going to delightful people--and you,” turning suddenly to Mrs. Bethune, ”I hope you are going to friends?”

”Friends! I have no friends,” says Marian Bethune sombrely. ”I have learned to forbid myself such luxuries. I can't afford them. I find them too expensive!”

”Expensive?”

”Yes. A loss to me of peace of mind that can never be made up.” She smiles at t.i.ta, a cold, unpleasant smile. ”Do you know what my definition of a friend is? Someone who takes delight in telling you all the detestable things your _other_ friends have said of you.”

”I don't think much of _your_ friends, any way,” says Mrs.

Chichester, who as a rule is always _en evidence_. ”Do you, Sir Maurice?”

”Do I what?”

”Do you agree with Mrs. Bethune?”

”I always agree with everybody,” says Rylton, smiling.

t.i.ta moves abruptly away.

”What a hot day it is,” says she petulantly, ”and nothing to do.

Tom,” beckoning Hescott to her, ”tell us a story. Do. You used to tell beautiful ones--in--the old days.”

”Do you still long for them?” asks Mrs. Bethune, always with her supercilious smile, and in a tone that is almost a whisper, yet quite loud enough for Rylton, who is standing near, to hear.

”Do _you?”_ demands t.i.ta, turning upon her with eyes ablaze with miserable anger.

”I?” haughtily. ”What do you mean?”

t.i.ta lifts her eyes to Rylton--_such_ eyes.

_”He_ will tell you,” says she, and with a little scornful lifting of her chin she turns away.

”Now for your story, Tom,” cries she gaily, merrily.

”You take me very short,” says Hescott, who seems, in his present mood, which is of the darkest, to be the last man in Europe to tell an amusing tale. ”But one occurs to me, and, of course,” looking round him, ”you all know it. Everyone nowadays knows every story that has and has not been told since the world began. Well, any way, I heard of a man the other day who--it is a most extraordinary thing--but he hated his wife!”

”For goodness' sake tell us something new,” says Mrs. Chichester, with open disgust.

”Isn't that new? Well, this man was at a prayer-meeting of some sort. There is a sort of bad man that hankers after prayer-meetings, and, of course, this was a bad man because he hated his wife. It was at the East End, and Job was the subject. Job is good for an East-End meeting, because patience is the sort of thing you must preach there nowadays if you wish to keep your houses from being set on fire; and he heard of all the troubles of Job, and how he was cursed--and how his children and cattle and goods had been taken from him--and _only his wife left!_ That struck him--_about the wife!_ 'Hang it! That was a big curse!' said he. 'Fancy leaving the _wife!'_ And the odd part of it was,” says Hescott, lifting his eyes and looking deliberately at Rylton, ”that his wife was an angel, whereas he--well, _she_ was the Job of _his_ life. She had to endure all things at his hands.”

Rylton looks back at him, and feels his brow grow black with rage.

He would have liked to take him and choke the life out of him.

”A delightful story,” says he, with a sneer. ”So fresh, so _original!”_

”Very dull, I think,” says Mrs. Chichester, who _can't_ hold her tongue. ”An everyday sort of thing. Lady Rylton, what do you think?”

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