at all.

"Yes, you _do_ know," says he, seeing her about to speak. "And _yet_ you
misjudge me. If--if I were to tell you that I would rather be with you
than with any other woman in the world, you would believe me, wouldn't
you?"

He stoops over her, and taking her hand presses it fondly, lingeringly.
"Answer me."

"Yes," says Joyce in a low tone. It has not occurred to her that his
words are a question rather than an asseveration. That he loves her,
seems to her certain. A soft glow illumines her cheeks; her eyes sink
beneath his; the idea that she is happy, or at all events _ought_ to be
happy, fills her with a curious wonderment. Do people always feel so
strange, so surprised, so _unsure_, when love comes to them?

"Yet you _did_ doubt," says Beauclerk, giving her hand a last pressure,
and now nestling back amongst his cushions with all the air of a man who
has fought and conquered and has been given his reward. "Well, don't let
us throw an unpleasant memory into this happy hour. As I have said,"
taking up her fan and idly, if gracefully, waving it to and fro, "after
all the turmoil of the fight it is sweet to find oneself at last in the
haven where one would be."

He is smiling at Joyce--the gayest, the most candid smile in the world.
Smiles become him. He is looking really handsome and _happy_ at finding
himself thus alone with her. Sincerity declares itself in every line of
his face. Perhaps he _is_ as sincere as he has ever yet been in his
life. The one thing that he unquestionably does regard with interest
beyond his own poor precious bones, is the exquisite bit of nature's
workmanship now sitting beside him.

At this present moment, in spite of his flattering words, his smiles and
telling glances, she is still a little cold, a little uncertain, a phase
of manner that renders her indescribably charming to the one watching
her.

Beauclerk indeed is enjoying himself immensely. To a man of his
temperament to be able to play upon a nature as fine, as honest, as pure
as Joyce's is to know a keen delight. That the girl is dissatisfied,
vaguely, nervously dissatisfied, he can read as easily as though the
workings of her soul lay before him in broad type, and to assuage those
half-defined misgivings of hers is a task that suits him. He attacks it
_con amore_.

"How silent you are," says he, very gently, when he has let quite a long
pause occur.

"I am tired, I think."

"Of me?"

"No."

"Of what then?"