The Hoyden Part 10

"I thought you were reading your paper," says Mrs. Chichester sharply. "Come, what's in it? I don't believe," scornfully, "you are reading it at all."

"I am, however," says Mr. Gower. "These ladies' papers are so full of information. I'm quite enthralled just now. I've got on to the Exchange and Mart business, and it's too exciting for _words_. Just listen to this: 'Two dozen old tooth-brushes (in _good_ preservation) would be exchanged for a gold bangle (_unscratched_).

Would not be sent on approval (mind, it must not be set _scratched!_ good old toothbrushes!) without deposit of ten shillings. Address, 'Chizzler, office of this paper.'"

"It isn't true. I don't believe a word of it," says t.i.ta, making a s.n.a.t.c.h at the paper.

"My dear girl, why not? Two dozen old toothbrushes. _Old_ toothbrushes, you notice. Everything old now goes for a large sum, except," thoughtfully, "aunts."

He casts a lingering glance round, but providentially Miss Gower has disappeared.

"But toothbrushes! Show me that paper."

"Do you, then, disbelieve in my word?"

"n.o.body could want a toothbrush."

"Some people want them awfully," says Mr. Gower. "Haven't you noticed?"

But here Sir Maurice sees it his duty to interfere.

"Miss Bolton, will you play this next set with me?" says he, coming up to t.i.ta.

"Oh, I should _love_ it!" cries she. "You are so good a player. Do get us some decent people to play against, though; I hate a weak game."

"Well, come, we'll try and manage it," says he, amused at her enthusiasm.

They move away together.

CHAPTER VI.

HOW GAMES WERE PLAYED, "OF SORTS"; AND HOW t.i.tA WAS MUCH HARRIED, BUT HOW SHE BORE HERSELF VALIANTLY, AND HOW, NOT KNOWING OF HER VICTORIES, SHE WON ALL THROUGH.

There had been no question about it; it had been a walk-over. Even Lord Eshurst and Miss Staines, who are considered quite crack people at tennis in this part of the county, had not had a chance. t.i.ta had been everywhere; she seemed to fly. Every ball caught, and every ball so well planted. Rylton had scarcely been in it, though a good player. That little thing was here and there and everywhere, yet Rylton could not say she poached. Whatever she did, however, she _won_.

She does not throw up her cap this time--perhaps she had seen a little of that laughter before--but she claps her hands joyfully, and pats Rylton's arm afterwards in a _bon camarade_ fashion that seems to amuse him. And is she tired? There is no sense of fatigue, certainly, in the way she runs up the slope again, and flings herself gracefully upon the rug beside Mr. Gower. Mr. Gower has not stirred from that rug since. He seldom stirs. Perhaps he would not be quite so stout if he did.

"You won your game?" says Margaret Knollys, bending towards t.i.ta, with a smile.

Old Lady Eshurst is smiling at her, too.

"Oh yes; how could I help it? Sir Maurice"--with a glance at the latter as he climbs the slope in turn--"plays like an angel."

"Oh no; it is you who do that," says he, laughing.

"Are you an angel, Miss Bolton?" asks Mrs. Bethune, who is standing next Rylton.

He had gone straight to her, but she had not forgiven his playing with the girl at all, and a sense of hatred towards t.i.ta is warming her breast.

"I don't know," says t.i.ta, with a slight grimace. It is not the answer expected. Marian had expected to see her shy, confused; t.i.ta, on the contrary, is looking at her with calm, inquiring eyes. "Do you?" asks she.

"I have not gone into it," says Mrs. Bethune, with as distinct a sneer as she can allow herself.

Mr. Gower laughs.

"You're good at games," says he to t.i.ta.

He might have meant her powers at tennis, he might have meant _anything_.

"That last game you are thinking of?"

"Decidedly, the last game," says Gower, who laughs again immoderately.

"I don't see what there is to laugh at," says Miss Bolton, with some indignation. "'They laugh who win,' is an old proverb. But _you_ didn't win; you weren't in it."

"I expect I never shall be," says Gower. "Yet lookers-on have their advantage ascribed to them by a pitiful Providence. They see most of the game."

"It is I who should laugh," says t.i.ta, who has not been following him. _"I_ won--we"--looking, with an honest desire to be just to all people, at Sir Maurice--_"we_ won."

"No, no; leave it in the singular," says Maurice, making her a little gesture of self-depreciation.

"You seem very active," says Margaret kindly. "I watched you at golf yesterday. You liked it?"

"Yes; there is so little else to like," says t.i.ta, looking at her, "except my horses and my dogs."

"A horse is the best companion of all," says Mr. Woodleigh, his eyes bent on her charming little face.

"I'm not sure, the dogs are so kind, so affectionate; they _want_ one so," says t.i.ta. "And yet a horse--oh, I _do_ love my last mount--a brown mare! She's lying up now."

"You ride, then?" says Sir Maurice.

"Ride! you bet!" says t.i.ta. She rolls over on the rug, and, resting on her elbows, looks up at him; Lady Rylton watching, shudders.

"I've been in the saddle all my life. Just before I came here I had a real good run--my uncle's groom had one horse, I had the other; it was over the downs. _I_ won."

She rests her chin upon her hands.

Lady Rylton's face pales with horror. A race with a groom!

"Your uncle must give you good mounts," says Mr. Woodleigh.

"It is all he _does_ give me," says the girl, with a pout. "Yes; I may ride, but that is all. I never _see_ anybody--there is n.o.body to see; my uncle knows n.o.body."

Lady Rylton makes an effort. It is growing _too_ dreadful. She turns to Mrs. Chichester.

"Why don't you play?" asks she.