“You think——­” says she.

“I think you what you are, a finished coquette.”  He almost pushes her from him.

Tita puts up her hands as if to warn him off.

“I am sorry I ever came here,” says she at last.  “I am sorry I ever married you.  I shall never forgive this—­never!”

“And I,” says Rylton.  “Have I nothing to forgive?”

“Nothing, nothing,” passionately.  “I came here to-night because I was lonely, and wanted to talk to somebody.  I came here to show you my pretty new frock; and how have you received me?  You have been hateful to me.  And yet you wonder that I didn’t think you my best friend!  You are not a friend at all.  You can’t bear me!  If I had gone to Tom, instead of you—­to show him my frock—­do you think he would have treated me like this?  No, he——­”

“Be silent!” says Sir Maurice.  “How dare you talk to me like this!” A dark flush has risen to his brow, his nostrils are dilated.  Is she mad—­to say such things to him?  “Go!” says he, pointing imperiously to the door.

“You have said that twice!” returns she in a low tone.  A moment her eyes rest on his, in another moment she is gone.

All that is left him is the memory of a little lovely creature, clad in a white gown, who had come to him with merry, happy eyes, and a smile upon her lips—­a smile that he had killed!

CHAPTER XXVII.

HOW SIR MAURICE FEELS UNEASY; AND HOW TITA, FOR ONCE, SHOWS HERSELF IMPLACABLE, AND REFUSES TO ACCEPT THE OVERTURES OF PEACE.  AND HOW A LITTLE GOSSIP WARMS THE AIR.

It is the next day, and luncheon is well over, a somewhat badly-attended meal.  But now all have managed to scramble downstairs, and the terrace is full of people who are saying “Good-morning” to each other at four o’clock in the afternoon.

“I never felt so tired in my life,” says Mrs. Chichester, subsiding into a lounge chair, and trying to look as if her tea-gown isn’t quite new.  She has selected this evening in especial to spring it upon her women friends.  As a rule people look dowdy after being up all night.  Mrs. Chichester is determined she won’t.  She appears as fresh as the proverbial lark, in an exquisite arrangement of white silk and lace, and a heavenly temper.  Her eyes are a little greener than usual.

“You don’t look it,” says Sir Maurice, who is standing near.  He is wondering if Tita will come down.  Tita has not put in an appearance all day.  There had been no necessity to send an apology about her absence from breakfast, as almost every one of the women had taken that meal in her own room, but she had sent a word or two of regret about her inability to appear at luncheon, and, somehow, it has got into Sir Maurice’s mind that perhaps she has made up her mind to stay in her own rooms all day.  The thought makes him uneasy; but at this moment an end is put to it.