Tita running up the slope at this moment like a young deer—a steep embankment that would have puzzled a good many people—puts an effectual end to the conversation. Mr. Gower graciously deigning to give her half of his rug, she sinks upon it gladly. She likes Gower.
Lady Rylton calls to her.
"Not on the grass, Tita dearest," cries she, in her little shrill, old-young voice. "Come here to me, darling. Next to me on this seat. Marian," to Mrs. Bethune, who has been sitting on the garden-chair with her, "you can make a little room, eh?"
"A great deal," says Marian.
She rises.
"Oh no! don't stir. Not for me," says Tita, making a little gesture to her to reseat herself. "No, thank you, Lady Rylton; I shall stay here. I'm quite happy here. I like sitting on the grass."
She makes herself a little more comfortable where she is, regardless of the honour Lady Rylton would have done her—regardless, too, of the frown with which her hostess now regards her.
Mr. Gower turns upon her a beaming countenance.
"What you really mean is," says he, "that you like sitting near me."
"Indeed I do not," says Tita indignantly.