"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