"What a good seat you must have!" says Mr. Woodleigh presently, who
has been dwelling on what Tita has said about her riding.

"Oh, pretty well! Everyone should ride," says Tita indifferently. "I
despise a man who can't conquer a horse. I," laughing, "never saw
the horse that _I_ couldn't conquer."

"You? Look at your hands!" says Gower, laughing.

"Well, what's the matter with them?" says she. "My cousin, when he
was riding, used to say they were made of iron."

"Of velvet, rather."

"No. He said my heart was made of that." She laughs gaily, and
suddenly looking up at Rylton, who is looking down at her, she fixes
her eyes on his. She spreads her little hands abroad, brown as
berries though they are with exposure to all sorts of weather. They
are small brown hands, and very delicately shaped. "They are not so
bad after all, are they?" says she.

"They are very pretty," smiles Rylton, returning her gaze.

Suddenly for the first time it occurs to him that she has a beauty
that is all her own.

"Oh no! there is nothing pretty about me," says Tita.

She gives a sudden shrug of her shoulders. She is still lying on the
rug, her face resting on the palms of her hands. Again she lifts her