ce, 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."

"I shouldn't," says Dysart, immovably.

"She plays a good game, I can tell you."

"So do you," says Dysart.

"Oh, now, Dysart, don't be sarcastic," says Beauclerk laughing. "I
believe you are afraid of me, not of Miss Kavanagh, and that's why you
won't play. But if you were to put yourself in Miss Maliphant's hands, I
don't say but that you would have a chance of beating me."

"I shall beat you by myself or not at all," says Dysart suddenly, and
for the first time looking fair at him.

"A single, you mean?"

"Yes, a single."

"Well--we shall see," says Beauclerk. "Hah, there is Courtenay. Come
along, Miss Kavanagh, we must make up a set as best we may, as Dysart is
too lazy to face us."

"The next game is ours, Mr. Dysart, remember," says she, glancing at
Dysart over her shoulder. There is a touch of anxiety in her eyes.

"I _always_ remember," says he, with a rather ambiguous smile. What is
he remembering now? Joyce's mouth takes a grave curve as she follows
Beauclerk down the marble steps that lead to the tennis-ground below.

The evening has grown very still. The light wind that all day long has
sung among the leaves has gone to sleep. Only the monotonous countings
of the tennis players can be heard. Suddenly above these, another sound
arises. It is _not_ the voice of the charmer. It is the voice of Tommy
in full cry, and