"Better come with me, Tommy," says she, "I am going to the gardens to find Lady Baltimore. She will have Bertie with her."

"I'll stay with d.i.c.ky," says Tommy, flinging himself broadcast on Mr.

Brown's reluctant chest, that gives forth a compulsory "Wough" as he does so. "He'll tell me a story."

"Don't be unhappy, Mrs. Monkton," says the latter, when he has recovered a little from the shock--Tommy is a well-grown boy, with a sufficient amount of adipose matter about him to make his descent felt. "I'll promise to be careful. Nothing French I a.s.sure you. Nothing that could shock the young mind, or teach it how to shoot in the wrong direction.

My tales are always strictly moral."

"Well, Tommy, be _good_!" says Mrs. Monkton with a last imploring glance at her son, who has already forgotten her existence, being lost in a wild wrestling match with his new friend. With deep forebodings his mother leaves him and goes upon her way. Pa.s.sing Joyce, she says in a low whisper:

"Keep an eye on Tommy."

"Both eyes if you like," laughing. "But d.i.c.ky, in spite of his evil reputation, seldom goes to extremes."

"Tommy does, however," says Mrs. Monkton tritely.

"Well--I'll look after him."

And so perhaps she might have done, had not a light step sounding just behind her chair at this moment caused her to start--to look round--to forget all but what she now sees.

He is a very aristocratic-looking man, tall, with large limbs, and big indeed, in every way. His eyes are light, his nose a handsome Roman, his forehead ma.s.sive, and if not grand in the distinctly intellectual way, still a fine forehead and impressive. His hands are of a goodly size, but exquisitely proportioned, and very white, the skin almost delicate.

He is rather like his sister, Lady Baltimore, and yet so different from her in every way that the distinct resemblance that is surely there torments the observer.

"_Why!_" says Joyce. It is the most foolish exclamation and means nothing, but she finds herself a little taken off her guard. "I didn't know you were here!" She has half risen.

"Neither did I--how d'ye do, Dysart?--until half an hour ago. Won't you shake hands?"

He holds out his own hand to her as he speaks. There is a quizzical light in his eyes as he speaks, nothing to offend, but one can see that he finds amus.e.m.e.nt in the fact that the girl has been so much impressed by his unexpected appearance that she has even forgotten the small usual act of courtesy with which we greet our friends. She had, indeed, been dead to everything but his coming.

"You came----" falters she, stammering a little, as she notes her mistake.

"By the mid-day train; I gave myself just time to s.n.a.t.c.h a sandwich from Purdon (the butler), say a word or two to my sister, whom I found in the garden, and then came on here to ask you to play this next game with me."

"Oh! I am so sorry, but I have promised it to----"

The words are out of her mouth before she has realized the fact that Dysart is listening--Dysart, who is lying at her feet, watching every expression in her mobile face. She colors hotly, and looks down at him confused, lovely.

"I didn't mean--_that_!" says she, trying to smile indifferently, "Only----"

"_Don't!_" says Dysart, not loudly, not curtly, yet in so strange and decided a way that it renders her silent. "You mustn't mind me," says he, a second later, in his usual calm tone. "I know you and Beauclerk are wonderful players. You can give me a game later on."

"A capital arrangement," says Beauclerk, comfortably sinking into a chair beside her, with all the lazy manner of a man at peace with himself and his world, "especially as I shall have to go in presently to write some letters for the evening post."

He places his elbows on the arms of the chair, brings the ends of his fingers together, and beams admiringly at Joyce over the tops of them.

"How busy you always are," says she, slowly.

"Well you see, this appointment, or, rather, the promise of it, keeps me going. Tremendous lot of interest to work up. Good deal of bother, you know, but then, beggars--eh?--can't be choosers, can they? And I should like to go to the East; that is, if----"

He pauses, beams again, and looks boldly into Miss Kavanagh's eyes. She blushes hotly, and, dropping her fan, makes a little attempt to pick it up again. Mr. Beauclerk makes another little attempt, and so manages that his hand meets hers. There is a slight, an almost benevolent pressure.

Had they looked at Dysart as they both resumed their places, they could have seen that his face is white as death. Miss Kavanagh, too, looks a little pale, a little uncertain, but as a whole nervously happy.

"I've been down at that old place of mine," goes on Mr. Beauclerk.

"Terrible disrepair--take thousands to put it in any sort of order. And where's one to get them? That's the one question that has got no answer now-a-days. Eh, Dysart?"

"There is an answer, however," says Dysart, curtly, not looking at him.

"Ah, well, I suppose so. But I haven't heard it yet."

"Oh, yes, I think you have," says Dysart, quite politely, but grimly, nevertheless.

"Dear fellow, how? where? unless one discovers a _mine_ or an African diamond-field?"

"Or an heiress," says Dysart, incidentally.

"Hah! lucky dog, that comes home to _you_," says Beauclerk, giving him a playful pat on his shoulder, and stooping from his chair to do it, as Dysart still sits upon the gra.s.s.

"Not to me."

"No? You _will_ be modest? Well, well! But talking of that old place, I a.s.sure you, Miss Kavanagh, it worries me--it does, indeed. It sounds like one's _duty_ to restore it, and still----"

"There are better things than even an old place," says Dysart.

"Ah! you haven't one you see," cries Beauclerk, with the utmost geniality. "If you had----I really think if you had you would understand that it requires a sacrifice to give it up to moths and rust and ruin."

"I said there were better things than old places," says Dysart doggedly, never looking in his direction. "And if there are, _make_ a sacrifice."

"Pouf! Lucky fellows like you--gay soldier lads--with hearts as light as sunbeams, can easily preach; but sacrifices are not so easily made.

There is that horrid word, Duty! And a man must sometimes _think_!"

Joyce, as though the last word has struck some answering chord that wounds her as it strikes, looks suddenly at him. _What_ was it Barbara had said? "He was a man who would always _think_,"--is he thinking now--even now--at this moment?--is he weighing matters in his mind?

"Hah!" says Beauclerk rising and pointing to the court nearest them; "_that_ game is over. Come on, Miss Kavanagh, let us go and get our scalps. I say, Dysart, will you fight it out with us?"

"No thanks."

"Afraid?" gaily.

"Of you--no," smiling; the smile is admirably done, and would be taken as the genuine article anywhere.

"Of Miss Kavanagh; then?"

For a brief instant, and evidently against his wish, Dysart's eyes meet those of Joyce.

"Perhaps," says he.

"A poor compliment to me," says Beauclerk, with his pleasant laugh that always rings _so_ softly. "Well, never mind; I forgive you. Get a good partner, my dear fellow, and _she_ may pull you through. You see I depend entirely upon mine," with a glance at Joyce, full of expression.

"There's Miss Maliphant now--she'd make a good partner if you like."