"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