“I am not afraid of anything,” says Tita lightly.  “But I confess I feel sorry at the thought of losing you all, even for a time——­”

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 Tita, 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 évidence.  “Do you, Sir Maurice?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you agree with Mrs. Bethune?”

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

Tita 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 Tita, turning upon her with eyes ablaze with miserable anger.

“I?” haughtily.  “What do you mean?”

Tita 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