"And now I'll tell you what I think. That he was glad to pretend to believe I was in love with Tom, because he hoped to get rid of me, and after that to marry his cousin."
"Tita! I shall not listen to you if you say such things. How dare you even think them? Maurice is incapable of such a design."
"In my opinion, he is capable of anything," retorts Maurice's wife, without a trace of repentance. She looks long at Margaret, and then dropping gracefully upon a pouf at Margaret's feet, says sweetly, "He's a beast!"
"Oh, Tita! I don't know why I love you," says Margaret, with terrible reproach.
At this Tita springs to her feet, and flings her arms round Miss Knollys. Presently she leans back and looks at her again, still, however, holding her with her arms. Her small face, so woeful a while ago, is now wreathed in smiles; it even suggests itself to Margaret that she is with difficulty suppressing a wild outbreak of mirth—a suppression meant, no doubt, as a concession to Margaret's feelings.
"I'll tell you," whispers she. "You love me because you would be the most ungrateful wretch on earth unless you did. You give me some of your love; I give you all mine. I have no one else."
"That is your own fault," says Margaret, still trying to scold her, actually believing she is doing it, whilst with her eyes and mouth she is smiling at her.
"Not another word, not one," says Tita. "And promise me you won't ask me to see him again. I hate him! He sets my nerves on edge. I think he is actually ugly."
"I think you must have forgotten what he is like by this time."
"No, I don't. One doesn't forget a nightmare in a hurry."