"Here! In this girl!" declares Lady Rylton solemnly. "Margaret, you know how we are situated. You know how low we have fallen—you can understand that in this marriage lies our last hope. If Maurice can be induced to marry Miss Bolton——"
A sound of merry laughter interrupts her here. There comes the sound of steps upon the terrace—running steps. Instinctively the three women within the room grow silent and draw back a little. Barely in time; a tiny, vivacious figure springs into view, followed by a young man of rather stout proportions.
"No, no, no!" cries the little figure, "you couldn't beat me. I bet you anything you like you couldn't. You may play me again if you will, and then," smiling and shaking her head at him, "we shall see!"
The windows are open and every word can be heard.
"Your future daughter-in-law," says Mrs. Bethune, in a low voice, nodding her beautiful head at Lady Rylton.
"Oh, it is detestable! A hoyden—a mere hoyden," says Lady Rylton pettishly. "Look at her hair!"
And, indeed, it must be confessed that the hoyden's hair is not all it ought to be. It is in effect "all over the place"—it is straight here, and wandering there; but perhaps its wildness helps to make more charming the naughty childish little face that peeps out of it.
"She has no manners—none!" says Lady Rylton. "She——"
"Ah, is that you, Lady Rylton?" cries the small creature on the terrace, having caught a glimpse of her hostess through the window.
"Yes, come in—come in!" cries Lady Rylton, changing her tone at once, and smiling and beckoning to the girl with long fingers. "I hope you have not been fatiguing yourself on the tennis-courts, you dearest child!"