“I don’t remember what you said," says Rylton, a little at fault.  “But—­if you are honestly determined, Tita, to be—­er—­a little more circumspect in that direction in future——­”

“I am—­I am indeed!” cries Tita.  “I’m sure I can’t think how I ever said it to you!  It was so rude—­so horrid——­”

“Said? What?" demands Rylton, with quick suspicion.

“Well, you know I did call you a cross cat!" says his wife, with a little slide glance at him, and a tremulous smile, and withal such lovely penitence, that if he had not been led astray by another thought, he would have granted her absolution for all her sins, here and hereafter, on the spot.

As it is, his wrath grows once more hot within him; so she is not sorry after all.

“Pshaw!” says he.

“Oh, and I called you ugly, too!” cries Tita.  “Oh, how could I?  But you will forgive me, won’t you?” She runs after him, and lays her hand upon his arm.  “You do forgive me, don’t you?”

_ “No!"_ says he violently.

He almost flings her from him.

“Hypocrite!” he says to himself, as he fastens the door of his own room.

A baby’s face, and the heart of a liar!  She had played with him; she had fooled him; she had, at all events, refused to say she regretted her conduct with her cousin.

He goes down to the garden, feeling it impossible to sleep just now, and, coming back two hours later, finds the ring he had given her lying on his dressing-table.  There is no note with it—­not even a single line.

CHAPTER IX.

HOW MRS. BETHUNE IS BROUGHT BEFORE THE BAR; AND HOW SHE GIVES HER EVIDENCE AGAINST TITA; AND HOW MAURICE’S MOTHER DESIRES AN INTERVIEW WITH MAURICE’S WIFE.

“And now for the news,” says the elder Lady Rylton, next morning, leaning back in her chair; she objects to the word “Dowager.”

Contrary to all expectations, she had arrived to-day at half-past eight, and is now, at one o’clock, sitting in her room with Mrs. Bethune before her.  She had seen Tita, of course; but only for a moment or so, as she had been in a hurry to get to her bedroom and her maid, and have the ravages that travel had laid upon her old-young face obliterated.  She had, indeed, been furious (secretly) with Tita for having come out of her room to bid her welcome—­such bad taste, obtruding one’s self upon a person in the early hours of the morning, when one has only just left a train.  But what can one expect from a plebeian!

“News?” says Marian, lifting her brows.

“Well,” testily, “I suppose there is some!  How is the ménage going on?  How is it being managed, eh?  You have a tongue, my dear—­speak!  I suppose you can tell me something!”

“Something!  Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“A great deal,” says Mrs. Bethune.