a glorious victory. They had only two games out of the six;
and you know Miss Connor plays very well."

"Where is Mr. Beauclerk?"

"Gone into the house to write some letters and telegrams."

"Norman, do you mean?" asks Lady Baltimore, coming up at this moment,
her basket full of flowers, and minus the little son and the heiress;
"he has just gone into the house to hear Miss Maliphant sing. You know
she sings remarkably well, and that last song of Milton Wettings suits
her so entirely. Norman is very fond of music. Have you had a game,
Joyce?"

"Yes, and won it," says Joyce, smiling back at her, though her face has
paled a little. _Had_ she won it?

"Well, I must take these into the house before they fade. Righton wants
them for the dinner-table," says Lady Baltimore. A little hurried note
has crept into her voice. She turns away somewhat abruptly. Lord
Baltimore and Lady Swansdown have just appeared in view, Lady Swansdown
with a huge bunch of honeysuckle in her hand, looking very picturesque.

Baltimore, seeing his wife move towards the house, and Lady Swansdown
displaying the spoils of her walk to Dysart, darts quickly after her.

"Let me carry that burden for you," says he, laying his hand upon the
basket of flowers.

"No, oh! no, thank you," says Lady Baltimore, glancing up at him for
just a moment, with a little curious expression in her eyes. "I have
carried it quite a long time. I hardly feel it now. No; go back to the
lawn to Lady Swansdown--see; she is quite alone at this moment. You will
be doing me a real service if you will look after our guests."

"As you will," says Baltimore, coldly.

He turns back with a frown, and rejoins those he had left.

Joyce is talking to Lady Swansdown in her prettiest way--she seems,
indeed, exceptionally gay even for her, who, as a rule, is the life of
every party. Her spirits seem to have risen to quite an abnormal height,
and her charming laugh, soft as it is sweet, rings gaily. With the
advent of Baltimore, however, Lady Swansdown's attention veers aside,
and Joyce, feeling Dysart at her elbow, turns to him.

"We postponed _one_ game, I think," says she. "Well--shall we play the
next?"

"I am sorry," says he, deliberately, "but I think not." His eyes are on
the ground.

"No?" says she, coloring warmly. There is open surprise in her glance.
That he should refuse to accept an advance from her seems truly beyond
belief.

"You must forgive me," says he, delib