The Hoyden Part 9

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 ma.s.s 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.

t.i.ta 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 gra.s.s, t.i.ta 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 t.i.ta, 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 gra.s.s."

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 t.i.ta 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 t.i.ta, 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 t.i.ta, 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 saying to me that you preferred me to all the rest of my s.e.x?"

"I _never_ said that!" says t.i.ta, with emphasis; "never! never! Why should I say that?"

She looks at Gower as if demanding an answer.

"I'm not good at conundrums," says he. "Ask me another."

"No; I won't," says she_. "Why?"_

Upon this Mr. Gower rolls himself over in the rug, and covers his head. It is plain that answers are not to be got out of _him_.

"Did I say that?" says t.i.ta, appealing to Sir Maurice.

"I hope not," returns he, laughing. "Certainly I did not hear it."

"And certainly he didn't either," says t.i.ta with decision.

"After that," says Gower, unrolling himself, "I shall retire from public life; I shall give myself up to"--he pauses and looks round; a favourite ladies' paper is lying on the ground near him--"to literature."

He turns over on his side, and apparently becomes engrosses in it.

"Have you been playing, Maurice?" asks Mrs. Bethune presently.

Her tone is cold. That little speech of his to t.i.ta, uttered some time ago, "I hope not," had angered her.

"No," returns he as coldly.

He is on one of his uncertain moods with regard to her. Distrust, disbelief, a sense of hopelessness--all are troubling him.

"What a shame, Sir Maurice!" says Mrs. Chichester, leaning forward.

As I have hinted, she would have flirted with a broomstick. "And you, who are our champion player."

"I'll play now if you will play with me," says Sir Maurice gallantly.

"A safe answer," looking at him with a pout, and through half-closed lids. She finds that sort of glance effective sometimes. "You know I don't play."

"Not _that_ game," says Mr. Gower, who never can resist a thrust.