"Why not Tita and Mr. Hescott?" says Marian suddenly, vivaciously. She seems to have lost all her indolence. "They have not been hunting once to-night."
"Yes; that is true," says Captain Marryatt.
"I hate hunting and I like hiding," says Tita. "Colonel Neilson, you and Margaret can be our pursuers this time. Come, Tom! come, all of you!"
Mrs. Bethune for a moment frowns, and then a quick light comes back to her eyes. Even better so—if Maurice should arrive. She had planned that they—those two, Tita and her cousin—should be together on his arrival, should he come; and now, now they will be hiding together in all probability! Oh for Maurice to come now—now!
She has evaded her own partner in the game, and, slipping away unobserved, is standing in one of the windows of the deserted library—a window that opens on the avenue—listening for the sound of horses' hoofs. In five minutes Maurice will be here, if he comes at all to-night, and as yet they have scarcely started on their game of hide-and-seek. She had heard Tita whisper to Mr. Hescott something about the picture-gallery—she had caught the word—a delightful place in semi-darkness, and with huge screens here and there. Oh, if only Tita could be found hiding behind one with Mr. Hescott!
She presses her hot cheek against the pane of the open window, and as she does so she starts. She leans out into the night, and yes—yes, beyond doubt, here is the carriage!
It is rounding the bushes at the corner, and is already in sight. She springs lightly into the hall—now deserted, as all the house party have gone up the stairs to the happy hunting grounds above. All, that is, except Margaret and Colonel Neilson, who are waiting for the "Coo-ee."
Mrs. Bethune had forgotten them, and running lightly through the hall, she opens the door, and steps into the moonlight just as Sir Maurice comes up the steps.
"You!" says he, surprised.
"Yes. I heard you coming." There is a sort of wild delight in her voice. She would have liked to have flung herself into his arms, but the men outside are busy with his portmanteau and other things; and then—his mother——