The Hoyden. Duchess

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      "Thank you, Randal, I prefer a more elevated position," replies she austerely.

      "Ah, you would! you would!" says Randal, who really ought to be ashamed of himself. "You were meant for high places."

      He sighs loudly, and goes back on his rug.

      "Miss Gower is right," says Mrs. Bethune gaily, who has just arrived. "Why don't you go in for Miss Bolton?"

      "She wouldn't have me!" says Gower tragically. "I've hinted all sorts of lovely things to her during the past week, but she has been apparently blind to the brilliant prospects opened to her. It has been my unhappy lot to learn that she prefers lollipops to lovers."

      "You tried her?" asks Mrs. Chichester.

      "Well, I believe I did do a good deal in the chocolate-cream business," says Mr. Gower mildly.

      "And she preferred the creams?"

      "Oh! much, much!" says Gower.

      "So artless of her," says Mrs. Bethune, with a shrug. "I do love the nineteenth-century child!"

      "If you mean Miss Bolton, so do I," says a young man who has been listening to them, and laughing here and there—a man from the Cavalry Barracks at Ashbridge. "She's quite out-of-the-way charming."

      Mrs. Bethune looks at him—he is only a boy and easily to be subdued, and she is glad of the opportunity of giving some little play to the jealous anger that is raging within her.

      "She has a hundred thousand charming ways," says she, smiling, but very unpleasantly. "An heiress is always charming."

      "Oh no! I didn't look at it in that way at all," says the boy, reddening furiously. "One wouldn't, you know—when looking at her."

      "Wouldn't one?" says Mrs. Bethune. She is smiling at him always; but it is a fixed smile now, and even more bitter. "And yet one might," says she.

      She speaks almost without knowing it. She is thinking of

       Rylton—might he?

      "I think not," says the boy, stammering.

      It is his first lesson in the book that tells one that to praise a woman to a woman is to bring one to confusion. It is the worst manners possible.

      "I agree with you, Woodleigh," says Gower, who is case-hardened and doesn't care about his manners, and who rather dislikes Mrs. Bethune. "She's got lovely little ways. Have you noticed them?"

      He looks direct at Marian.

      "No," says she, shaking her head, but very sweetly. "But, then, I'm so dull."

      "Well, she has," says Gower, in quite a universally conversational tone, looking round him. He turns himself on his rug, pulls a cushion towards him, and lies down again. "And they're all her own, too."

      "What a comfort!" says Mrs. Bethune, rather nastily.

      Gower looks at her.

      "Yes, you're right," says he. "To be original—honestly original—is the thing nowadays. Have you noticed when she laughs? Those little slender shoulders of hers actually shake."

      "My dear Mr. Gower," says Mrs. Bethune, "do spare us! I'm sure you must be portraying Miss Bolton wrongly. Emotion—to betray emotion—how vulgar!"

      "I like emotion," says Mr. Gower calmly; "I'm a perfect mass of it myself. Have you noticed Miss Bolton's laugh, Rylton?" to Sir Maurice, who had come up a moment ago, and had been listening to Mrs. Bethune's last remark. "It seems to run all through her. Not an inch that doesn't seem to enjoy it."

      "Well, there aren't _many _inches," says Sir Maurice, with am amused air.

      "And the laugh itself—so gay."

      "You are en enthusiast," says Sir Maurice, who is standing near Mrs.

       Bethune.

      "My dear fellow, who wouldn't be, in such a cause?" says the young cavalryman, with a rather conscious laugh.

      "Here she is," says Mrs. Chichester, who is one of those people whom

       Nature has supplied with eyes behind and before.

      Tita running up the slope at this moment like a young deer—a steep embankment that would have puzzled a good many people—puts an effectual end to the conversation. Mr. Gower graciously deigning to give her half of his rug, she sinks upon it gladly. She likes Gower.

      Lady Rylton calls to her.

      "Not on the grass, Tita dearest," cries she, in her little shrill, old-young voice. "Come here to me, darling. Next to me on this seat. Marian," to Mrs. Bethune, who has been sitting on the garden-chair with her, "you can make a little room, eh?"

      "A great deal," says Marian.

      She rises.

      "Oh no! don't stir. Not for me," says Tita, making a little gesture to her to reseat herself. "No, thank you, Lady Rylton; I shall stay here. I'm quite happy here. I like sitting on the grass."

      She makes herself a little more comfortable where she is, regardless of the honour Lady Rylton would have done her—regardless, too, of the frown with which her hostess now regards her.

      Mr. Gower turns upon her a beaming countenance.

      "What you really mean is," says he, "that you like sitting near me."

      "Indeed I do not," says Tita indignantly.

      "My dear girl, think. Am I to understand, then, that you don't like sitting near me?"

      "Ah, that's a different thing," says Tita, with a little side-glance at him that shows a disposition to laughter.

      "You see! you see!" says Mr. Gower triumphantly—he has a talent for teasing. "Then you do wish to sit beside me! And why not?" He expands his hands amiably. "Could you be beside a more delightful person?"

      "Maybe I could," says Tita, with another glance.

      Rylton, who is listening, laughs.

      His laugh seems to sting Mrs. Bethune to her heart. She turns to him, and lets her dark eyes rest on his.

      "What a little flirt!" says she contemptuously.

      "Oh no! a mere child," returns he.

      "Miss Bolton! What an answer!" Gower is now at the height of his enjoyment. "And after last night, too; you must remember what you said to me last night."

      "Last night?" She is staring at him with a small surprised face—a delightful little face, as sweet as early spring. "What did I say to you last night?"

      "And have you forgotten?" Mr. Gower has thrown tragedy into his voice. "Already? Do you mean to tell me that you don't recollect СКАЧАТЬ