He has found that as a rule there is nothing a woman
likes better than to be asked to define her own feelings, Joyce,
however, disappoints him.

"I don't know. Sitting up so late I suppose."

"Look here!" says he, in a voice so full of earnest emotion that Joyce
involuntarily stares at him; "_I_ know what is the matter with you. You
are fighting against your better nature. You are _trying_ to be
ungenerous. You are trying to believe what you know is not true. Tell
me--_honestly_ mind--are you not forcing yourself to regard me as a
monster of insincerity?"

"You are wrong," says she, slowly. "I am forcing myself, on the
contrary, to believe you a very giant of sincerity."

"And you find that difficult?"

"Yes."

An intense feeling of admiration for her sways Beauclerk. How new a
thing to find a girl so beautiful, with so much intelligence. Surely
instinct is the great lever that moves humanity. Why has not this girl
the thousands that render Miss Maliphant so very desirable? What a
_betise_ on the part of Mother Nature. Alas! it would be too much to
expect from that niggardly Dame. Beauty, intelligence, wealth! All
rolled into one personality. Impossible!

"You are candid,'" says he, his tone sorrowful.

"That is what one should always be," says she in turn.

"You are _too_ stern a judge. How shall I convince you," exclaims
he--"of _what_ he leaves open? If I were to swear----"

"_Do_ not," says she quickly.

"Well, I won't. But Joyce!" He pauses, purposely. It is the first time
he has ever called her by her Christian name, and a little soft color
springs into the girl's cheeks as she hears him. "You know," says he,
"you _do_ know?"

It is a question; but _again_ what? _What_ does she know? He had
accredited her with remarkable intelligence a moment ago, but as a fact
the girl's knowledge of life is but a poor thing in comparison with that
of the man of the world. She belies her intelligence on the spot.

"Yes, I think I do," says she shyly. In fact she is longing to believe,
to be sure of this thing, that to her is so plain that she has omitted
to notice that he has never put it into words.

"You will trust in me?" says he.

"Yes, I trust you," says she simply.

Her pretty gloved hand is lying on her lap. Raising it, he presses it
passionately to his lips. Joyce, with a little nervous movement,
withdraws it quickly. The color dies from her lips. Even at this supreme
moment does Doubt hold her in th