Rylton speaks with comparative calmness. It is plain that his one outbreak of passion has horrified himself, and he is determined not to give way to another whatever provocation may lie in his path.
"Is it?" tauntingly. "Come"—gaily—"I will make a bet with you—a fair one, certainly. Of course, I know as little of your wife's movements at present as you do. I could not possibly know more, as I have been here with you all this time."
"Well—your bet?" darkly.
"That she is now with her old—with Mr. Hescott."
"I take it," says he coldly.
Something in his air that is full of anger, of suppressed fury, gives her pause for thought. Her heart sinks. Is she to win or lose in this great game, the game of her life? Why should he look like that, when only the honour of that little upstart is in question?
"Come, then," says she.
She moves impulsively towards the stairs that lead to the garden—an impulsive step that costs her dear.
"But why this way?" asks Rylton. "Why not here?" pointing towards the ballroom. "Or here?" contemptuously pointing to a window further on that leads to a conservatory.
For a moment Mrs. Bethune loses herself—only for a moment, however.
That first foolish movement that betrayed her knowledge of where
Tita really is has to be overcome.