"Beyond doubt," says Lady Rylton insolently, waving her fan to and fro, "if he does it in the right way. In all my experience, my dear Margaret, I have never known a woman to frown upon a man who was as handsome, as well-born, as _chic_ as Maurice! Even though the man might be a--well"--smiling and lifting her shoulders--"it's a rude word, but--well, a very devil!" She looks deliberately at Margaret over her fan, who really appears in this dull light _nearly_ as young as she is. The look is a cruel one, hideously cruel. Even Marian Bethune, whose bowels of compassion are extraordinary small, changes colour, and lets her red-brown eyes rest on the small woman lounging in the deep chair with a rather murderous gaze. Yet Lady Rylton smiles on, enjoying the changes in Margaret's face. It is a terrible smile, coming from so fragile a creature. Margaret's face has grown white, but she answers coldly and with deliberation. All that past horrible time--her lover, his unworthiness, his desertion--all her young, _young_ life lies once more massacred before her. "The women who give in to such fascination, such mere outward charms, are fools!" says she with a strength that adorns her. "Oh, come! Come now, dearest Margaret," says her aunt, with the gayest of little laughs, "would you call _yourself_ a fool? Why, remember, your own dear Harold was----" "Pray spare me!" says Miss Knollys, in so cold, so haughty, so commanding a tone, that even Lady Rylton sinks beneath it. She makes an effort to sustain her position and laughs lightly, but for all that she lets her last sentence remain a fragment. "You think Maurice will propose to this Miss Bolton?" says Marian Bethune, leaning forward. There is something sarcastic in her smile. "He must. It is detestable, of course. One would like a girl in his own rank, but there are so few of them with money, and when there is one, her people want her to marry a Duke or a foreign Prince--so tiresome of them!" "It is all such folly," says Margaret, knitting her brows. "Utter folly," says Lady Rylton. "That is what makes it so wise! It would be folly to marry a satyr--satyrs are horrid--but if the satyr had _millions!_ Oh, the wisdom of it!" "You go too far!" says Margaret. "Money is not everything." "And Maurice is not a satyr," says Mrs. Bethune, a trifle unwisely. She has been watching the players on the ground below. Lady Rylton looks at her. "Of course _you_ object to it," says she. "I!" says Marian. "Why should I object to it? I talk of marriage only in the abstract." "I am glad of that!" Lady Rylton's eyes are still fixed on hers. "This will be a veritable marriage, I assure you; I have set my mind on it. It is terrible to contemplate, but one must give way sometimes; yet the thought of throwing that girl into the arms of darling Maurice----" She breaks off, evidently overcome, yet behind the cobweb she presses to her cheeks she has an eye on Marian.