lways think that the
woman who marries a man without caring for him is a far greater fool
than the woman who marries a man for whom she does care."

"After all, I am not thinking of a woman," says Lady Rylton with a
shrug. "I am thinking of Maurice. This girl has money; and, of
course, she will accept him if I can only induce him to ask her."

"It is not altogether of course!"

_"I_ think it is," says Lady Rylton obstinately.

Miss Knollys shrugs her shoulders.

All at once Mrs. Bethune turns from the window and advances towards
Margaret. There is a sudden fury in her eyes.

"What do you mean?" says she, stopping short before Miss Knollys,
and speaking with ill-suppressed rage. "Who is _she_, that she
should refuse him? That little, contemptible child! That nobody! I
tell you, she would not dare refuse him if she asked her! It would
be too great an honour for her."

She stops. Her fingers tighten on her gown. Then, as suddenly as it
grew, her ungovernable fit of anger seems to die checked, killed by
her own will. She sinks into the chair behind her, and looks
deliberately at Margaret with an air that, if not altogether
smiling, is certainly altogether calm. It must have cost her a good
deal to do it.

"It is beyond argument," says she; "he will not ask her."

"He _shall,"_ says Lady Rylton in a low tone.

Margaret rises, and moves slowly towards one of the open windows;
she pauses there a moment, then steps out on to the balcony, and so
escapes. These incessant discussions are abhorrent to her, and just
now her heart is sad for the poor child who has been brought down
here ostensibly for amusement, in reality for business. Of course,
Maurice will not marry her--she knows Maurice, he is far above all
that sort of thing; but the very attempt at the marriage seems to
cover the poor child with insult. And she is such a pretty child.

At this moment the pretty child, with Randal Gower, comes round the
corner; she has her skirt caught up at one side, and Miss Knollys
can see it is full of broken biscuits. The pulling up of the skirt
conduces a good deal to the showing of a lovely little foot and
ankle, and Margaret, who has the word "hoyden" still ringing in her
ears, and can see Lady Rylton's cold, aristocratic, disdainful face,
wishes the girl had had the biscuit in a basket.

"Oh, here is Miss Knollys!" cries Tita, running to her. "We are going
to feed the swans" (she looks back at her companion). "He has go