"Certainly you're caught," says Gower, making frantic little dabs at her; but she dances away from him, letting her husband go, and rushing once more behind the unfriendly screen that has done her so bad a turn.
"Certainly I'm not," retorts she, nodding her saucy head at him. Slowly and artfully, as she speaks, she moves towards the farther end of the screen, always keeping an eye on her adversary over the top of it until she comes to the far end, when, darting like a little swallow round the corner, she flies down the long, dark gallery. Once only she turns. "Now am I caught?" cries she, laughing defiance at Gower.
"Call that fair, if you like!" says he, in high disgust.
But she is gone.
* * * * *
The house is quiet again. Gower and Marryatt are still lingering in the smoking-room, but for the rest, they have bidden each other "Good-night" and gone to their rooms.
Tita is sitting before her glass having her hair brushed, when a somewhat loud knock comes to her door. The maid opens it, and Sir Maurice walks in.
"You can go," says he to Sarah, who courtesies and withdraws.
"Oh! it is you," says Tita, springing up.
Her hair has just been brushed for the night, and round her forehead some cloudy ringlets are lying. She had thrown on her dressing-gown—a charming creation of white cashmere, almost covered with lace—without a thought of fastening it, and her young and lovely neck shows through the opening of the laces whiter than its surroundings. Her petticoat—all white lace, too, and caught here and there with tiny knots of pale pink ribbons—is naturally shorter than her gown would be, and shows the dainty little feet beneath them.