“If I don’t, then he is ruined!” Lady Rylton gets up from her chair, and takes a step or two towards Margaret.  “This house-party that I have arranged, with this girl in it, is a last effort,” says she in a low voice, but rather hysterically.  She clasps her hands together.  “He must—­he must marry her.  If he refuses——­”

“But she may refuse him,” says Margaret gently; “you should think of that.”

“She—­she refuse?  You are mad!” says Lady Rylton.  “A girl—­a girl called Bolton."

“It is certainly an ugly name,” says Margaret in a conciliatory way.

“And yet you blame me because I desire to give her Rylton instead, a name as old as England itself.  I tell you, Margaret,” with a little delicate burst of passion, “that it goes to my very soul to accept this girl as a daughter.  She—­she is hateful to me, not only because of her birth, but in every way.  She is antagonistic to me.  She—­would you believe it?—­she has had the audacity to argue with me about little things, as if she—­she," imperiously, “should have an opinion when I was present.”

“My dear Tessie, we all have opinions, and you know you said yourself that at seventeen nowadays one is no longer a child.”

“I wish, Margaret, you would cure yourself of that detestable habit of repeating one’s self to one’s self,” says Lady Rylton resentfully.  “There,” sinking back in her chair, and saturating her handkerchief with some delicate essence from a little Louis Quatorze bottle beside her, “it isn’t worth so much worry.  But to say that she would refuse Maurice——­”

“Why should she not?  She looks to me like a girl who would not care to risk all her future life for mere position.  I mean,” says Margaret a little sadly, “that she looks to me as if she would be like that when she is older, and understands.”

“Then she must look to you like a fool,” says Lady Rylton petulantly.

“Hardly that.  Like a girl, rather, with sense, and with a heart.”

“My dear girl, we know how romantic you are, we know that old story of yours,” says Lady Rylton, who can be singularly nasty at times.  “Such an old story, too.  I think you might try to forget it.”

“Does one ever forget?” says Margaret coldly.  A swift flush has dyed her pale face.  “And story or no story, I shall always think that the woman who marries a man without caring for him is a far greater fool than the woman who marries a man for whom she does care.”

“After all, I am not thinking of a woman,” says Lady Rylton with a shrug.  “I am thinking of Maurice.  This girl has money; and, of course, she will accept him if I can only induce him to ask her.”

“It is not altogether of course!”

"I think it is,” says Lady Rylton obstinately.

Miss Knollys shrugs her shoulders.

All at once Mrs. Bethune turns from the window and advances towards Margaret.  There is a sudden fury in her eyes.