She smiles as she asks her question—a hateful smile. There is something in it almost devilish—a compelling of the woman before her to remember days that should be dead, and a secret that should have been hers alone.
"Not mine, certainly," says Marian, clearing her throat as though it is a little dry, but otherwise defying the scrutiny of the other.
"And yet you say they are not on good terms!" Lady Rylton pauses as if thinking, and then goes on. "No wonder, too," says she, with a shrug. "Two people with two such tempers!"
"Has Tita a temper?" asks Marian indifferently.
Lady Rylton regards her curiously.
"Have you not found that out yet?" asks she.
"No," coldly.
"It argues badly for you," says her aunt, with a small, malicious smile. "She has shown you none of it, then?"
"None," distinctly.
"My dear Marian, I am afraid Maurice is proving false," says Lady
Rylton, leaning back in her chair, and giving way to soft, delicate
mirth—the mirth that suits her Dresden china sort of beauty.
"Evidently our dear Tita is not afraid of you."