Tita, with enthusiasm. "Perpetual sunshine! Here, in September, it
often pelts rain all day long!"

_ "Pelts!_ My dear Tita, _what_ a word!" says Lady Rylton.

She sinks back in her chair as if overcome, and presses her perfumed
handkerchief to her face.

"What's the matter with it?" asks Tita, a little smartly, perhaps.
"It's a right-down good word, in my opinion. I've heard lots of
people use it."

"No doubt _you_ have," says her mother-in-law.

"Well, so have you, I dare say!" says Tita.

"I expect we all have," says Margaret Knollys, laughing. "Still, you
know, Tita, it's not a pretty word."

"Very good; I shan't say it again," says Tita, the mutinous little
face of a moment ago now lovely with love.

She has come back from her honeymoon quite as fond of Margaret as
when she started.

It is now the middle of September; outside on the lawn the shadows
are wandering merrily from tree to tree. The sun is high, but little
clouds running across it now and again speak of sharp rains to come.

"The air so soft, the pines whispering so low,