that set but _not_ as Mr. Beauclerk's partner. Miss
Maliphant has secured that enviable _role_.

Even as Joyce gazes, Beauclerk, turning his head, meets her earnest
regard. He returns it with a beaming smile. Miss Maliphant, whose duty
it is at this instant to advance and retire and receive without the
support of a chaperone the attacks of the bold, bad man opposite, having
moved out of Beauclerk's sight, the latter, with an expressive glance
directed at Joyce, lifts his shoulders forlornly, and gives a
serio-comic shrug of his shoulders. All to show now bored a being he is
at finding himself thus the partner of the ugly heiress! It is all done
in a second. An inimitable bit of acting--but unpleasant.

Joyce draws herself up. Her eyes fall away from his; unless the distance
is too far, the touch of disdain that lies in them should have
disconcerted even Mr. Beauclerk. Perhaps it has!

"Our turn?" says she, giving her partner a sudden beautiful glance full
of fire--of life--of something that he fails to understand, but does
_not_ fail to consider charming. She smiles; she grows radiant. She is a
different being from a moment ago. How could he--Blake--have thought her
stupid. How she takes up every word--and throws new meaning into it--and
_what_ a laugh she has! Low-sweet--merry--music to its core!

Beauclerk in his turn finds a loop-hole through which to look at her,
and is conscious of a faint feeling of chagrin. She oughtn't to have
taken it like that. To be a little pensive--a little sad--that would
have shewn a right spirit. Well--the night is long. He can play his game
here and there. There is plenty of time in which to regain lost ground
with one--to gain fresh ground with the other. Joyce will forgive
him--when she hears _his_ version of it.

CHAPTER XII.

"If thou canst see not, hast thou ears to hear?--Or
is thy soul too as a leaf that dies?"

"Well, after all, life has its compensations," says Mr. Beauclerk,
sinking upon the satin lounge beside Miss Kavanagh, and giving way to a
rapturous sigh. He is looking very big and very handsome. His
close-cropped eminently aristocratic head is thrown a little back, to
give full play to the ecstatic smile he is directing at Joyce.

She bears it wonderfully. She receives it indeed with all the amiable
imbecility of a person who doesn't understand what on earth you are
talking about. Whether this reception of his little opening speech--so
carefully