"Women like to talk," says Sir Maurice to himself, as he sits on the
lounge where Marian had just now sat. He finds consolation in his
mother's poodle, who climbs on his knees, giving herself up a
willing prey to his teasing.

"Maurice, you are not attending," says Lady Rylton at last, with a
touch of serious anger.

"I am indeed--I am, I assure you," says Maurice, looking up. "If I'm
not, it's your poodle's fault; she is such a fascinating creature."

As he says this he makes a little attack on the poodle, who snaps
back at him, barking vigorously, and evidently enjoying herself
immensely.

"I want a decisive answer from you," says his mother.

"A decisive answer! How can I give that?"

He is still laughing, but even as he laughs a sound from without
checks him. It is another laugh--happy, young, joyous. Instinctively
both he and Lady Rylton look towards the open window. There below,
still attended by Mr. Gower, and coming back from her charitable
visit to the swans, is Tita, her little head upheld, her bright eyes
smiling, her lips parted. There is a sense of picturesque youth
about the child that catches Rylton's attention, and holds it for
the moment.

"There she is," says he at last, looking back over his shoulder at