"I'm not going to be espoused," says Miss Kavanagh, half laughing.

"No? I quite understood----"

"I won't have that word," petulantly. "It sounds like something out of the dark ages."

"So does he," says Mr. Browne. "'Felix,' you know. So Latin! Quite like one of the old monks. I shouldn't wonder if he turned out a----"

"I wish you wouldn't tease me, d.i.c.ky," says she. "You think you are amusing, you know, but I think you are one of the rudest people I ever met. I wish you would let me alone."

"Ah! Why didn't you leave me alone?" says he, with a sigh that would have set a furnace ablaze. "However!" with a n.o.ble determination to overcome his grief. "Let the past lie. You want to go and meet Dysart, isn't that it? And I'll go and meet him with you. Could self-sacrifice further go? 'Jim along Josy,' no doubt he is at the upper gate by this time, flying on the wings of love."

"He is not," says Joyce; "and I wish once for all, d.i.c.ky, that you wouldn't call me 'Josy.' 'Jocelyne' is bad enough, but 'Josy!' And I'm not going to 'jim' anywhere, and certainly"--with strong determination--"not with you." She looks at him with sudden curiosity.

"What brought you here to-day?" asks she, most inhospitably it must be confessed.

"What brings me here every day? To see the unkindest girl in the world."

"She doesn't live here," says Miss Kavanagh. "d.i.c.ky"--changing her tone suddenly and looking at him with earnest eyes. "What is this I hear about Lady Baltimore and her husband? Be sensible now, do, and tell me."

"They're going abroad together--with Bertie. They've made it up," says he, growing as sensible as even she can desire. "It is such a complete make up all round that they didn't even ask me to go with them. However, I'm determined to join them at Nice on their return from Egypt. Too much billing and cooing is bad for people."

"I'm so glad," says Joyce, her eyes filling with tears. "They are two such dear people, and if it hadn't been for Lady--By the by, where is Lady Swansdown?"

"Russia, I think."

"Well, I liked her, too," says Joyce, with a sigh; "but she wasn't good for Baltimore, was she?"

"Not very!" says Mr. Browne, dryly. "I should say, on the whole, that she disagreed with him. Tonics are sometimes dangerous."

"I'm so delighted," says Joyce, still thinking of Lady Baltimore.

"Well," smiling at him, "why don't you go in and see Barbara?"

"I have seen her, talked with her a long while, and bid her adieu. I was on my way back to the Court, having failed in my hope of seeing you, when I found this delightful nest of earwigs, and thought I'd stay and confabulate with them a while in default of better companions."

"Poor d.i.c.ky!" says she. "Come with me, then, and I'll talk to you for half an hour."

"Too late!" says he, looking at his watch. "There is only one thing left me now to, say to you, and that is, 'Good-by.'"

"Why this mad haste?"

"Ah, ha! I Can have my little secrets, too," says he. "A whisper in your ear," leaning toward her.

"No, thank you," says she, waving him off with determination. "I remember your last whisper. There! if you can't stay, d.i.c.ky, good by indeed. I'm going for a walk."

She turns away resolutely, leaving Mr. Browne to sink back upon the seat and continue his reading, or else to go and meet that secret he spoke of.

"I say," calls he, running after her. "You may as well see me as far as the gate, any way." It is evident the book at least has lost its charms.

Miss Kavanagh not being stony hearted so far gives in as to walk with him to a side gate, and having finally bidden him adieu, goes back to the summer house he has quitted, and, opening her book, prepares to enjoy herself.

Vain preparation! It is plain that the fates are against her to-day. She is no sooner seated, with her book of poetry open on her knee, than a little flying form turns the corner and Tommy precipitates himself upon her.

"What are you doing?" asks he.

CHAPTER LIX.

"Lips are so like flowers I might s.n.a.t.c.h at those Redder than the rose leaves, Sweeter than the rose."

"Love is a great master."

"I am reading," says she. "Can't you see that?"

"Read to me, then," says Tommy, scrambling up on the bench beside her and snuggling himself under her arm. "I love to hear people."

"Well, not this, at all events," says Miss Kavanagh, placing the dainty copy of "The Muses of Mayfair," she has been reading on the rustic table in front of her.

"Why not that one? What is it?" asks Tommy, staring at the book.

"Nothing you would like. Horrid stuff. Only poetry."

"What's poetry?"

"Oh, nonsense, Tommy, you know very well what poetry is. Your hymns are poetry." This she considers will put an end to all desire for the book in question. It is a clever and skilful move, but it fails signally.

There is silence for a moment while Tommy cogitates, and then----

"Are those hymns?" demands he, pointing at the discarded volume.

"N-o, not exactly." This is scarcely disingenuous, and Miss Kavanagh has the grace to blush a little. She is the further discomposed in that she becomes aware presently that Tommy sees through her perfectly.

"Well, what are they?" asks he.

"Oh--er--well--just poetry, you know."

"I don't," says Tommy, flatly, who is nothing if not painfully truthful.

"Let me hear them." He pauses here and regards her with a searching eye.

"They"--with careful forethought--"they aren't lessons, are they?"

"No; they are not lessons," says his aunt, laughing. "But you won't like them for all that. If you are athirst for literature, get me one of your own books, and I will read 'Jack the Giant Killer' to you."

"I'm sick of him," says Tommy, most ungratefully. That tremendous hero having filled up many an idle hour of his during his short lifetime.

"No," nestling closer to her. "Go on with your poetry one!"

"You would hate it. It is worse than 'Jack,'" says she.

"Let me hear it," says Tommy, persistently.