n, she
refuses to give heed to the warning. He is not like other men. He is not
basely jealous. He knows her. He trusts her. He had hinted to her but
just now, so very, very kindly that _she_ was suspicious, that she must
try to conquer that fault--if it is hers. And it is. There can be no
doubt of that. She had even distrusted _him_!

"Is that your advice?" asks Mr. Browne, regarding him with a rather
piercing eye. "Capital, _under the circumstances_, but rather,
eh?----Has it ever occurred to you that Dysart is capable of a good deal
of feeling?"

"So few things occur to me, I'm ashamed to say," says Beauclerk,
genially. "I take the present moment. It is all-sufficing, so far as I'm
concerned. Well; and so you tell me Dysart has feeling?"

"Yes; I shouldn't advise Miss Kavanagh to play pranks with him," says
Dicky, with a pretentiously rueful glance at the arm she has just
pinched so very delicately.

"You're a poor soldier!" says she, with a little scornful uptilting of
her chin. "You wrong Mr. Dysart if you think he would feel so slight an
injury. What! A mere touch from _me_!"

"Your touch is deadlier than you know, perhaps," says Mr. Browne,
lightly.

"What a slander!" says Miss Kavanagh, who, in spite of herself, is
growing a little conscious.

"Yes; isn't it?" says Beauclerk, to whom she has appealed. "As for
me----" He breaks off suddenly and fastens his gaze severely on the
other side of the room. "By Jove! I had forgotten! There is my partner
for this dance looking daggers at me. Dear Miss Kavanagh, you will
excuse me, won't you? Shall I take you to your chaperone, or will you
let Browne have the remainder of this waltz?"

"I'll look after Miss Kavanagh, if she will allow me," says Dicky,
rather drily. "Will you?" with a quizzical glance at Joyce.

She makes a little affirmative sign to him, returns Beauclerk's parting
bow, and, still with a heart as light as a feather, stands by Mr.
Browne's side, watching in silence the form of Beauclerk as it moves
here and there amongst the crowd. What a handsome man he is! How
distinguished! How tall! How big! Every other man looks dwarfed beside
him. Presently he disappears into an anteroom, and she turns to find Mr.
Browne, for a wonder, as silent as herself, and evidently lost in
thought.

"What are you thinking of?" asks she.

"Of you!"

"Nonsense! What were you doing just then when I spoke to you?"

"I have told you."

"No, you haven't. What _wer