ree the bright expectancy of her face. He had _said_ he
would come, and now----She drums in a heavy-hearted listless fashion on
the table with the tips of her pale gloves, and noticing, half
consciously in so doing, that they have not been sufficiently drawn up
her arm, mechanically fits them closer to the taper fingers.

Certainly he had said he would be here. "Early you know. Before the
others can get down." A quick frown grows upon her forehead, and now
that the fingers are quiet, the little foot begins to beat a tattoo upon
the ground. Leaning against the table in a graceful attitude, with the
lamplight streaming on her pretty white frock, she gives a loose rein to
her thoughts.

They are a little angry, a little frightened perhaps. During the past
week had he not said many things that in the end proved void of meaning.
He had haunted her in a degree, at certain hours, certain times, had
loitered through gardens, lingered in conservatories by her side,
whispered many things--looked so very many more. But----

There were other times, other opportunities for philandering (_she_ does
not give it this unpleasant name); how has he spent them?--A vague
thought of Miss Maliphant crosses her mind. That he laughs at the plain,
good-natured heiress to her (Joyce), had not prevented the fact that he
is very attentive to her at times. Principally such times as when Joyce
may reasonably be supposed to be elsewhere. Human reason, however, often
falls short of the mark, and there have been unsuspected moments during
the past week when Miss Kavanagh has by chance appeared upon the scene
of Mr. Beauclerk's amusements, and has found that Miss Maliphant has had
a good deal to do with them. But then--"That poor, good girl you know!"
Here, Beauclerk's joyous laugh would ring forth for Joyce's benefit.
"_Such_ a good girl; and so--er--_don't_ you know!" He was certainly
always a little vague. He didn't explain himself. Miss Kavanagh, looking
back on all he had ever said against the heiress, is obliged to confess
to herself that the great "er" had had to express everything. Contempt,
dislike, kindly disdain--he was always _kindly_--he made quite a point
of _that_. Truly, thinks Miss Kavanagh to herself after this
retrospective glance, "er" is the greatest word in the English language!

And so it is. It declares. It conceals. It conveys a laugh. It suggests
a frown. It helps a sorrowful confession. It adorns a lame one. It is
kindly, as