"Do you mean to tell me," says he, thus brought to bay, "that you have
nothing to thank Sir George for?" He is addressing his wife.

"Nothing, nothing!" declares she, vehemently, the remembrance of that
last letter from her husband's father, that still lies within reach of
her view, lending a suspicion of passion to her voice.

"Oh, my dear girl, _consider_!" says Mr. Monkton, lively reproach in his
tone. "Has he not given you _me_, the best husband in Europe?"

"Ah, what it is to be modest," says Joyce, with her little quick
brilliant laugh.

"Well, it's not true," says Mrs. Monkton, who has laughed also, in spite
of herself and the soreness at her heart. "He did _not_ give you to me.
You made me that gift of your own free will. I have, as I said before,
nothing to thank him for."

"I always think he must be a silly old man," says Joyce, which seems to
put a fitting termination to the conversation.

The silence that ensues annoys Tommy, who dearly loves to hear the human
voice divine. As expressed by himself first, but if that be
impracticable, well, then by somebody else. _Anything_ is better than
dull silence.

"Is he that?" asks he, eagerly, of his aunt.

Though I speak of her as his aunt, I hope it will not be misunderstood
for a moment that Tommy totally declines to regard her in any
reverential light whatsoever. A playmate, a close friend, a confidante,
a useful sort of person, if you will, but certainly not an _aunt_, in
the general acceptation of that term. From the very first year that
speech fell on them, both Mabel and he had refused to regard Miss
Kavanagh as anything but a confederate in all their scrapes, a friend to
rejoice with in all their triumphs; she had never been aunt, never,
indeed, even so much as the milder "auntie" to them; she had been
"Joyce," only, from the very commencement of their acquaintance. The
united commands of both father and mother (feebly enforced) had been
insufficient to compel them to address this most charming specimen of
girlhood by any grown up title. To them their aunt was just such an one
as themselves--only, perhaps, a little _more_ so.

A lovely creature, at all events, and lovable as lovely. A little
inconsequent, perhaps at times, but always amenable to reason, when put
into a corner, and full of the glad, laughter of youth.

"Is he what?" says she, now returning Tommy's eager gaze.

"The best husband in Europe. He _says_ he's that," with a doubtful star