"You are candid,'" says he, his tone sorrowful.

"That is what one should always be," says she in turn.

"You are _too_ stern a judge. How shall I convince you," exclaims he--"of _what_ he leaves open? If I were to swear----"

"_Do_ not," says she quickly.

"Well, I won't. But Joyce!" He pauses, purposely. It is the first time he has ever called her by her Christian name, and a little soft color springs into the girl's cheeks as she hears him. "You know," says he, "you _do_ know?"

It is a question; but _again_ what? _What_ does she know? He had accredited her with remarkable intelligence a moment ago, but as a fact the girl's knowledge of life is but a poor thing in comparison with that of the man of the world. She belies her intelligence on the spot.

"Yes, I think I do," says she shyly. In fact she is longing to believe, to be sure of this thing, that to her is so plain that she has omitted to notice that he has never put it into words.

"You will trust in me?" says he.

"Yes, I trust you," says she simply.

Her pretty gloved hand is lying on her lap. Raising it, he presses it pa.s.sionately to his lips. Joyce, with a little nervous movement, withdraws it quickly. The color dies from her lips. Even at this supreme moment does Doubt hold her in thrall!

Her face is marvelously bright and happy, however, as she rises precipitately to her feet, much to Beauclerk's relief. It has gone quite far enough he tells himself--five minutes more and he would have found himself in a rather embarra.s.sing position. Really these pretty girls are very dangerous.

"Come, we must go back to the ballroom," says she gaily. "We have been here an unconscionable time. I am afraid my partner for this dance has been looking for me, and will scarcely forgive my treating him so badly.

If I had only told him I _wouldn't_ dance with him he might have got another partner and enjoyed himself."

"Better to have loved and lost," quotes Beauclerk in his airiest manner.

It is _so_ airy that it strikes Joyce unpleasantly. Surely after all--after----She pulls herself together angrily. Is she _always_ to find fault with him? Must she have his whole nature altered to suit her taste?

"Ah, there is d.i.c.ky Browne," says she, glancing from where she is now standing at the door of the conservatory to where Mr. Browne may be seen leaning against a curtain with his lips curved in a truly benevolent smile.

CHAPTER XIII.

"Now the nights are all past over Of our dreaming, dreams that hover In a mist of fair false things: Night's afloat on wide wan wings."

"Why, so it is! Our _own_ d.i.c.ky, in the flesh and an admirable temper apparently," says Mr. Beauclerk. "Shall we come and interview him?"

They move forward and presently find themselves at Mr. Browne's elbow; he is, however, so far lost in his kindly ridicule of the poor silly revolving atoms before him, that it is not until Miss Kavanagh gives his arm a highly suggestive pinch that he learns that she is beside him.

"_Wough!_" says he, shouting out this uncla.s.sic if highly expressive word without the slightest regard for decency. "_What_ fingers you've got! I really think you might reserve that kind of thing for Mr. Dysart.

_He'd_ like it."

This is a most infelicitous speech, and Miss Kavanagh might have resented it, but for the strange fact that Beauclerk, on hearing it, laughs heartily. Well, if _he_ doesn't mind, it can't matter, but how silly d.i.c.ky can be! Mr. Beauclerk continues to laugh with much enjoyment.

"Try him!" says he to Miss Kavanagh, with the liveliest encouragement in his tone. If it occurs to her that, perhaps, lovers, as a rule, do not advise their sweethearts to play fast and loose with other men, she refuses to give heed to the warning. He is not like other men. He is not basely jealous. He knows her. He trusts her. He had hinted to her but just now, so very, very kindly that _she_ was suspicious, that she must try to conquer that fault--if it is hers. And it is. There can be no doubt of that. She had even distrusted _him_!

"Is that your advice?" asks Mr. Browne, regarding him with a rather piercing eye. "Capital, _under the circ.u.mstances_, but rather, eh?----Has it ever occurred to you that Dysart is capable of a good deal of feeling?"

"So few things occur to me, I'm ashamed to say," says Beauclerk, genially. "I take the present moment. It is all-sufficing, so far as I'm concerned. Well; and so you tell me Dysart has feeling?"

"Yes; I shouldn't advise Miss Kavanagh to play pranks with him," says d.i.c.ky, with a pretentiously rueful glance at the arm she has just pinched so very delicately.

"You're a poor soldier!" says she, with a little scornful uptilting of her chin. "You wrong Mr. Dysart if you think he would feel so slight an injury. What! A mere touch from _me_!"

"Your touch is deadlier than you know, perhaps," says Mr. Browne, lightly.

"What a slander!" says Miss Kavanagh, who, in spite of herself, is growing a little conscious.

"Yes; isn't it?" says Beauclerk, to whom she has appealed. "As for me----" He breaks off suddenly and fastens his gaze severely on the other side of the room. "By Jove! I had forgotten! There is my partner for this dance looking daggers at me. Dear Miss Kavanagh, you will excuse me, won't you? Shall I take you to your chaperone, or will you let Browne have the remainder of this waltz?"

"I'll look after Miss Kavanagh, if she will allow me," says d.i.c.ky, rather drily. "Will you?" with a quizzical glance at Joyce.

She makes a little affirmative sign to him, returns Beauclerk's parting bow, and, still with a heart as light as a feather, stands by Mr.

Browne's side, watching in silence the form of Beauclerk as it moves here and there amongst the crowd. What a handsome man he is! How distinguished! How tall! How big! Every other man looks dwarfed beside him. Presently he disappears into an anteroom, and she turns to find Mr.

Browne, for a wonder, as silent as herself, and evidently lost in thought.

"What are you thinking of?" asks she.

"Of you!"

"Nonsense! What were you doing just then when I spoke to you?"

"I have told you."

"No, you haven't. What _were_ you doing?"

"_Hankering!_" says Mr. Browne, heavily.

"_d.i.c.ky!_" says she indignantly.

"Well; what? Do you suppose a fellow gets rid of a disease of that sort all in a minute? It generally lasts a good month, I can tell you. But come; that 'Beautiful Star' of yours, that 'shines in your heaven so bright,' has given you into my charge. What can I do for you?"

"Deliver me from the wrath of that man over there," says Miss Kavanagh, indicating Mr. Blake, who, with a thunderous brow, is making his way towards her. "The last was his. I forgot all about it. Take me away, d.i.c.ky; somewhere, anywhere; I know he's got a horrid temper, and he is going to say uncivil things. Where" (here she meanly tries to get behind Mr. Browne) "_shall_ we go."

"Right through this door," says Mr. Browne, who, as a rule, is equal to all emergencies. He pushes her gently towards the conservatory she has just quitted, that has steps leading from it to the illuminated gardens below, and just barely gets her safely ensconced behind a respectable barricade of greenery before Mr. Blake arrives on the spot they have just vacated.

They have indeed the satisfaction of seeing him look vaguely round, murmur a gentle anathema or two, and then resign himself to the inevitable.

"He's gone!" says Miss Kavanagh, with a sigh of relief.

"To perdition!" says Mr. Browne in an awesome tone.

"I really wish you wouldn't, d.i.c.ky," says Joyce.

"Why not? You seem to think men's hearts are made of adamant! A moment ago you sneered at _mine_, and now----By Jove! Here's Baltimore--and alone, for a wonder."

"Well! _His_ heart is adamant!" says she softly.