The Hoyden Part 35

"That is an unkind little speech!" says he gently. "It reminds me that it was you who set _me_ up in the world."

This shaft tells.

t.i.ta colours warmly; her generous soul shrinks from such an accusation.

"I didn't mean that," says she; "you know very well I didn't. I wish," petulantly, "you would go away; I want to read."

"Well, I'm going," says Rylton. As a means of carrying out this promise, he props himself up with a branch of the tree on which she is sitting--a branch on a level with her dainty little silk-clad feet. He has leant both his arms on it, and now involuntarily his eyes rest upon her shoes. "What beautiful feet you have!" says he slowly.

It is a perfectly Machiavellian speech. t.i.ta's feet are beyond argument, and there is not a woman in _this_ world, any way, who has beautiful feet, who doesn't want everyone to tell her all about them.

"No, no; they're nothing," says she, making a pretence of tucking up the much-maligned feet in question under her frock, which basely fails to help her.

But even as she says this she smiles--reluctantly, no doubt; but, still, she _does_ smile--and casts a glance at Rylton from under her long lashes. It is a delightful look--half pleased, half defiant, wholly sweet.

"Forgive me, t.i.ta!" says her husband quickly.

"I don't want you to talk to me like that," says she, with a frown.

"But I must say that. Well, will you?"

"I don't know." She stops, and again casts that pretty glance at him. "At all events, you will have to promise me one thing."

"Anything."

"No; I'm in earnest."

"So am I."

He ventures now to take one of the charming feet so close to him into one of his hands, and strokes the instep softly with the other.

"Oh no! you are never in earnest with me," says the girl. "But what I want you to say is, that you won't do it again."

"Do what?"

"Scold me."

"Never--never!" says Rylton.

"That's a promise, mind."

"I shall mind it."

"Very well--I forgive you."

"Let me bring you back to Mother Earth, then," says Rylton.

"No, thank you; I can take myself down."

"That's being unkind to yourself. Take down your friends if you like, but spare yourself."

"I should like to take _you_ down," says she maliciously.

"Am _I_ your friend, then?"

"No--no, indeed!"

"Well----"

He pauses and looks at her. All at once it seems to him that perhaps he _is_ her friend--a friend--a mere friend! But could a man who loved another woman be an honest friend to his wife?

"Are you?" asks t.i.ta.

"Yes. Didn't I want to take you down just now?"

At this she gives in and laughs a little. He laughs too.

"You are too clever for me," says she.

"And you--what are you? Too good for me, perhaps."

"I don't think you ought to say things you don't mean," says t.i.ta.

"But as you have made that promise--why, you _may_ take me down now."

She leans towards him, holding out her arms. He takes her into his, and brings her slowly, carefully to the gra.s.s beside him. Even when safely landed here he still holds her.

"We _are_ friends?" asks he.

His tone is a question.

"Yes, yes, of course," impatiently. "Are they playing tennis? Do you think they want me?"

It is impossible for him to misunderstand her meaning. A longing to get back to the others to play, and win at her favourite game of tennis, has been in part the cause of her ready forgiveness.

"Certainly they want you," says he, surprised at himself for the touch of chagrin he feels. "But," still holding her, "you have quite made it up with me, haven't you?"

"Quite--quite."

"But what a way to make it up!" says Rylton reproachfully.

He is smiling all through, however.

"What's the matter with it?" asks t.i.ta.

"Don't you know? Must I tell you? Last night, t.i.ta, you told me you would never want to kiss me again."

"Well, kissing's a bore," says t.i.ta, with a little grimace. "I never want to kiss anyone really, except----"

She hesitates.