"No!" She scribbles Mrs. Bethune's name on her list, and then, "You particularly wish her to be asked?"
"Not particularly. Certainly not at all if you object to it."
"Object! Why should I object? She is amusing—she will keep us all alive; she will help you to entertain your people."
"I should hope you, Tita, would help me to do that."
"Oh, I have not the air—the manner! I shall feel like a guest myself," says Tita. She has sprung to her feet, and is now blowing a little feather she had found upon her frock up into the air. It eludes her, however; she follows it round the small table, but all in vain—it sinks to the ground. "What a beast of a feather!" says she.
"I don't like you to say that," says Rylton. "A _guest _in your own house!"
"You don't like me to say anything," says Tita petulantly. "I told you I was horrid. Well, I'll be mistress in my own house, if that will please you. But," prophetically, "it won't. Do you know, Maurice," looking straight at him with a defiant little mien, "I'm more glad that I can tell you that I don't care a ha'penny about you, because if I did you would break my heart."
"You have a high opinion of me!" says Maurice. "That I acknowledge. But, regarding me as you do, I wonder you ever had the courage to marry me!"
"Well, even you are better than Uncle George," says she. "Now, go on; is there anyone else? The Heriots! Who are they? I heard you speak of them."
"Ordinary people; but he shoots. He is a first-class shot."