“What did you mean?” persists he icily.

“What a tragic tone!” Her manner is all changed; she is laughing now.  “Well, what did I mean?  That your wife——­ Stay!” with a little comic uplifting of her beautiful shoulders and an exaggerated show of fear, “do not assault me again.  That your wife has shown the bad taste to prefer her cousin—­her old lover—­to you!”

“As I said, words, mere words,” returns he, with a forced smile.  “Because she speaks to him, dances with him, is civil to him, as she is civil to all guests——­”

“Is she just as civil to all her guests?”

“I think so.  It is my part to do her justice,” says he coldly, “and, I confess, I think her a perfect hostess, if——­”

“If?”

“If wanting in a few social matters.  As to her cousin, Mr. Hescott—­being one of her few relations, she is naturally attentive to him.”

"Very!"

“And she is——­”

“Always with him!” Mrs. Bethune laughs again—­always that low, sweet, cruel laughter. "Could attention farther go?”

“Always?  Surely that is an exaggeration.”

Rylton speaks with comparative calmness.  It is plain that his one outbreak of passion has horrified himself, and he is determined not to give way to another whatever provocation may lie in his path.

“Is it?” tauntingly.  “Come”—­gaily—­“I will make a bet with you—­a fair one, certainly.  Of course, I know as little of your wife’s movements at present as you do.  I could not possibly know more, as I have been here with you all this time.”

“Well—­your bet?” darkly.

“That she is now with her old—­with Mr. Hescott.”

“I take it,” says he coldly.

Something in his air that is full of anger, of suppressed fury, gives her pause for thought.  Her heart sinks.  Is she to win or lose in this great game, the game of her life?  Why should he look like that, when only the honour of that little upstart is in question?

“Come, then,” says she.

She moves impulsively towards the stairs that lead to the garden—­an impulsive step that costs her dear.

“But why this way?” asks Rylton.  “Why not here?” pointing towards the ballroom.  “Or here?" contemptuously pointing to a window further on that leads to a conservatory.

For a moment Mrs. Bethune loses herself—­only for a moment, however.  That first foolish movement that betrayed her knowledge of where Tita really is has to be overcome.

“The dance is over,” says she, “and the gardens are exquisitely lit.  Lady Warbeck has great taste.  After all, Maurice,” slipping her hand into his arm, “our bet is a purely imaginary one.  We know nothing.  And perhaps I have been a little severe; but as it is a bet, I am willing to lose it to you.  Let us take one turn down this walk that leads to the dahlias, and after that——­”

“After that——­”