Lady Rylton calls to her.

"Not on the grass, Tita dearest," cries she, in her little shrill,
old-young voice. "Come here to me, darling. Next to me on this seat.
Marian," to Mrs. Bethune, who has been sitting on the garden-chair
with her, "you can make a little room, eh?"

"A great deal," says Marian.

She rises.

"Oh no! don't stir. Not for me," says Tita, making a little gesture
to her to reseat herself. "No, thank you, Lady Rylton; I shall stay
here. I'm quite happy here. I like sitting on the grass."

She makes herself a little more comfortable where she is, regardless
of the honour Lady Rylton would have done her--regardless, too, of
the frown with which her hostess now regards her.

Mr. Gower turns upon her a beaming countenance.

"What you really mean is," says he, "that you like sitting near
_me."_

"Indeed I do not," says Tita indignantly.

"My dear girl, _think_. Am I to understand, then, that you don't
like sitting near me?"

"Ah, that's a different thing," says Tita, with a little side-glance