"I'm right! By what authority do you say that! Come now, Tita!"
"By my own."
"The very worst in the world, then. Give me back that pencil."
"Not likely," says Tita, tilting her chin. "Here's one belonging to yourself," taking one off the writing-table near. "This can't offend you, I hope. After all, I'm a poor sort," says Tita, with a disconsolate sigh that is struggling hard with a smile to gain the mastery. "It's awfully hard to offend me. I've no dignity—that's what your mother says. And after all, too," brightening up, and smiling now with delightful gaiety, "I don't want to have any. One hates to be hated!"
"What an involved speech! Well, if you won't give me your pencil, let us get on with this. Now, to begin, surely you have someone you would like to ask here, in spite of all you have said."
"Well—perhaps." She pauses. "I want to see Margaret," says she, hurriedly, tremulously, as if tears might be in her eyes.
He cannot be sure of that, however, as her lids are lowered. But her tone—is there a note of unhappiness in it? The very thought gives him a shock; and of late has she not been a little uncertain in her moods?
"I was going to name her," says Rylton.
"Then you see we have one thought in common," says Tita.
She has knelt down beside him to look at his list, and suddenly he lays his palm under her chin, and so lifts her face that he can see it.