_know_ Isabel," says he, laughing airily; "she takes the oddest
fancies at times. Miss Maliphant is her latest craze. Though what she
can see in her----A _nice_ girl. Thoroughly nice--essentially _real_--a
little _too_ real perhaps," with a laugh so irresistible that even Miss
Kavanagh against her will is compelled to join in it.

"Honest all through, I admit; but as a _waltzer_! Well, well, we
shouldn't be too severe--but really, there you know, she leaves
_everything_ to be desired. And I've been victimized not once, but
twice--_three_ times."

"It is nothing remarkable," says Miss Kavanagh, coldly. "Many very
charming girls do not dance well. It is a gift."

"A very precious one. When a charming girl can't waltz, she ought to
learn how to sit down charmingly, and not oppress innocent people. As
for Miss Maliphant!" throwing out his large handsome hands expressively,
"_she_ certainly should not dance. Her complexion doesn't stand it. Did
you notice her?"

"No," icily.

"Ah, you wouldn't, you know. I could see how thoroughly well occupied
_you_ were! Not a thought for even an old friend; and besides you're a
girl in ten thousand. Nothing petty or small about you. Now, another
woman would not have failed to notice the fatal tendency towards
rubicundity that marks Miss Maliphant's nose whenever----"

"I do so dislike discussing people behind their backs," says Miss
Kavanagh, slowly. "I always think it is so _unfair_. They can't defend
themselves. It is like maligning the dead."

"Miss Maliphant isn't dead at all events. She is dreadfully alive," says
Mr. Beauclerk, totally unabashed. He laughs gaily. To refuse to be
lectured was a rule he had laid down for his own guidance early in life.
Those people who will not see when they ought to be offended have
generally the best of the game.

"Would you have her dead?" asks Joyce, with calm interrogation.

"I don't remember saying I would have her _any_ way," says he, still
evidently clinging to the frivolous mood. "And at all events I wouldn't
have her _dancing_. It disagrees with her nose. It makes her suggestive;
it betrays one into the making of bad parodies. One I made to-night when
looking at her; I couldn't resist it. For once in her life you see she
was irresistible. Hear it. 'Oh! my love's got a red, red nose!' Ha! ha!
Not half bad, eh? It kept repeating itself in my brain all the time I
was looking at her."

"I thought you liked her," says Joyce, lifting he