"Yes; there is so little else to like," says Tita, looking at her, "except my horses and my dogs." "A horse is the best companion of all," says Mr. Woodleigh, his eyes bent on her charming little face. "I'm not sure, the dogs are so kind, so affectionate; they _want_ one so," says Tita. "And yet a horse--oh, I _do_ love my last mount--a brown mare! She's lying up now." "You ride, then?" says Sir Maurice. "Ride! you bet!" says Tita. She rolls over on the rug, and, resting on her elbows, looks up at him; Lady Rylton watching, shudders. "I've been in the saddle all my life. Just before I came here I had a real good run--my uncle's groom had one horse, I had the other; it was over the downs. _I_ won." 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. "We lived at Oakdean then," goes on Tita, taking, very properly, no notice of him, "and my father liked me to ride. My cousin was with us there, and he taught me. I rode a great deal before"--she pauses, and her lips quiver; she is evidently thinking of some grief that has entered into her young life and saddened it--"before I went to live with my uncle." "It was your cousin who taught you to ride, then? Is he a son of the--the uncle with whom you now live?" asks Sir Maurice, who is rather ashamed of exhibiting such interest in her. "No, no, indeed! He is a son of my aunt's--my father's sister. She married a man in Birmingham--a sugar merchant. I did love Uncle Joe," says Tita warmly. "No wonder!" says Mrs. Bethune. "I wish _I_ had an uncle a sugar merchant. It does sound sweet." "I'm not sure that _you _would think my uncle Joe sweet!" says Miss Bolton thoughtfully. "He wasn't good to look at. He had the biggest mouth that ever _I_ saw, and his nose was little and turned up, but I loved him. I love him now, even when he is gone. And one _does_ forget, you know! He said such good things to people, and"--covering her little face with her hands, and bursting into an irrepressible laugh--"he told such funny stories!" Lady Rylton makes a sudden movement.