"What a hideous word that is!" says Mrs. Bethune, with a sneer. "It ought to be expunged from every decent dictionary. Fortunately," with a rather insolent glance at Randal, who is so openly a friend of Tita's, "very few people use it—in civilized society."
"And I'm one of them," says the young man, with deep self-gratulation. "I like to be in a minority—so choice, you know; so distinguished! But what, really," turning to Tita, "is the matter with poor, dear old auntie?"
"A chill, I should think," returns Tita severely. Has he forgotten all about yesterday's escapade? "She seemed to me very wet when she got home last evening."
"She was soaking," says Mr. Gower. "She didn't show it much, because when the water was rising in that wretched old boat—really, you know, Maurice ought to put respectable boats on his lake—she pulled up her——"
"Randal!"
"Well, she did!" says Randal, unabashed. "Don't glare at me! I didn't pull up anything! I'd nothing to pull up, but she——" Here Mr. Gower gives way to wild mirth. "Oh, if you'd seen her!" says he—"such spindleshanks!"
At this Marryatt gets behind him, draws a silken chair-back over his face, thus mercifully putting an end to his spoken recollections.
"If I were you, Tita, I should order Randal off to bed," says Margaret, who, I regret to say, is laughing. "He has been up quite long enough for a child of his years."
"Well—but, really, what is the matter with Miss Gower?" asks somebody.
"Temper," puts in Mrs. Bethune, with a shrug.