She rests her chin upon her hands.
Lady Rylton's face pales with horror. A race with a groom!
"Your uncle must give you good mounts," says Mr. Woodleigh.
"It is all he does give me," says the girl, with a pout. "Yes; I may ride, but that is all. I never see anybody—there is nobody to see; my uncle knows nobody."
Lady Rylton makes an effort. It is growing too dreadful. She turns to Mrs. Chichester.
"Why don't you play?" asks she.
"Tennis? I hate it; it destroys one's clothes so," says Mrs. Chichester. "And those shoes, they are terrible. If I knew any girls—I never do know them, as a rule—I should beg of them not to play tennis; it is destruction so far as feet go."
"Fancy riding so much as that!" says Mr. Woodleigh, who, with Sir Maurice and the others, has been listening to Tita's stories of hunts and rides gone and done. "Why, how long have you been hunting?"
"Ever since I was thirteen," says Tita.
"Why, that is about your age now, isn't it?" says Gower.