iringly 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 grass.

"Not to me."

"No? You _will_ be modest? Well, well! But talking of that old place, I
assure 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_!"

Joy