lle in my
day."

"I have heard it," says Margaret hastily, who, indeed, has heard it
_ad nauseam_. "But with regard to this marriage, Tessie, I don't
believe you will get Maurice to even think of it."

"If I don't, then he is ruined!" Lady Rylton gets up from her chair,
and takes a step or two towards Margaret. "This house-party that I
have arranged, with this girl in it, is a last effort," says she in
a low voice, but rather hysterically. She clasps her hands together.
"He must--he _must_ marry her. If he refuses----"

"But she may refuse him," says Margaret gently; "you should think of
that."

"She--she refuse? You are mad!" says Lady Rylton. "A girl--a girl
called _Bolton."_

"It is certainly an ugly name," says Margaret in a conciliatory way.

"And yet you blame me because I desire to give her Rylton instead, a
name as old as England itself. I tell you, Margaret," with a little
delicate burst of passion, "that it goes to my very soul to accept
this girl as a daughter. She--she is _hateful_ to me, not only
because of her birth, but in every way. She is antagonistic to me.
She--would you believe it?--she has had the audacity to argue with
me about little things, as if she--_she,"_ imperiously, "should have
an opinion when I was present."

"My dear Tessie, we all have opinions, and you know you said
yourself that at seventeen nowadays one is no longer a child."

"I wish, Margaret, you would cure yourself of that detestable habit
of repeating one's self _to_ one's self," says Lady Rylton
resentfully. "There," sinking back in her chair, and saturating her
handkerchief with some delicate essence from a little Louis Quatorze
bottle beside her, "it isn't worth so much worry. But to say that
she would refuse Maurice----"

"Why should she not? She looks to me like a girl who would not care
to risk all her future life for mere position. I mean," says
Margaret a little sadly, "that she looks to me as if she would be
like that when she is older, and understands."

"Then she must look to you like a fool," says Lady Rylton
petulantly.

"Hardly that. Like a girl, rather, with sense, and with a heart."

"My dear girl, we know how romantic you are, we know that old story
of yours," says Lady Rylton, who can be singularly nasty at times.
"Such an _old_ story, too. I think you might try to forget it."

"Does one ever forget?" says Margaret coldly. A swift flush has dyed
her pale face. "And story or no story, I shall a