little soft round cap that, defiant of the sun, she wears, and
flings it sky-high, catching it deftly as it descends upon the top
of her dainty head, a _little_ sideways. Her pretty, soft, fluffy
hair, cut short, and curled all over her head by Mother Nature, is
flying a little wildly across her brows, her large gray eyes (that
sometimes are so nearly black) are brilliant. Altogether she is just
a little, a _very_ little, pronounced in her behaviour. Her
opponents, people who have come over to The Place for the day,
whisper something to each other, and laugh a little. After all, they
have lost--perhaps they are somewhat spiteful. Lady Rylton, sitting
on the terrace above, bites her lips. What an impossible girl! and
yet how rich! Things must be wrong somewhere, when Fate showers
money on such a little ill-bred creature.

"How funny she is!" says Mrs. Chichester, who is sitting near Lady
Rylton, a guest at The Place in this house-party, this last big
entertainment, that is to make or mar its master. Lady Rylton had
organized it, and Sir Maurice, who never contradicted her, and who
had not the slightest idea of the real meaning of it, had shrugged
his shoulders. After all, let her have her own way to the last.
There would be enough to pay the debts and a little over for her;
and for him, poverty, a new life, and emancipation. He is tired of
his mother's rule. "And how small!" goes on Mrs. Chichester, a tall
young woman with light hair and queer eyes, whose husband is abroad
with his regiment. "Like a doll. I love dolls; don't you, Captain
Marryatt?"

"Are _you_ a doll?" asks Captain Marryatt, who is leaning over her.

He is always leaning over her!