e_ you doing?"

"_Hankering!_" says Mr. Browne, heavily.

"_Dicky!_" says she indignantly.

"Well; what? Do you suppose a fellow gets rid of a disease of that sort
all in a minute? It generally lasts a good month, I can tell you. But
come; that 'Beautiful Star' of yours, that 'shines in your heaven so
bright,' has given you into my charge. What can I do for you?"

"Deliver me from the wrath of that man over there," says Miss Kavanagh,
indicating Mr. Blake, who, with a thunderous brow, is making his way
towards her. "The last was his. I forgot all about it. Take me away,
Dicky; somewhere, anywhere; I know he's got a horrid temper, and he is
going to say uncivil things. Where" (here she meanly tries to get behind
Mr. Browne) "_shall_ we go."

"Right through this door," says Mr. Browne, who, as a rule, is equal to
all emergencies. He pushes her gently towards the conservatory she has
just quitted, that has steps leading from it to the illuminated gardens
below, and just barely gets her safely ensconced behind a respectable
barricade of greenery before Mr. Blake arrives on the spot they have
just vacated.

They have indeed the satisfaction of seeing him look vaguely round,
murmur a gentle anathema or two, and then resign himself to the
inevitable.

"He's gone!" says Miss Kavanagh, with a sigh of relief.

"To perdition!" says Mr. Browne in an awesome tone.

"I really wish you wouldn't, Dicky," says Joyce.

"Why not? You seem to think men's hearts are made of adamant! A moment
ago you sneered at _mine_, and now----By Jove! Here's Baltimore--and
alone, for a wonder."

"Well! _His_ heart is adamant!" says she softly.

"Or hers--which?"

"Of course--manlike--you condemn our sex. That's why I'm glad I'm not a
man."

"Why? Because, if you were, you would condemn your present sex?"

"_Certainly_ not! Because I wouldn't be of an unfair, mean, ungenerous
disposition for the world."

"Good old Jo!" says Mr. Browne, giving her a tender pat upon the back.

By this time Baltimore has reached them.

"Have you seen Lady Baltimore anywhere?" asks he.

"Not quite lately," says Dicky; "last tune I saw her she was dancing
with Farnham."

"Oh--after that she went to the library," says Joyce quickly. "I fancy
she may be there still, because she looked a little tired."

"Well, she had been dancing a good deal," says Dicky.

"Thanks. I dare say I'll find her," says Baltimore, with an air of
indifference, hurrying on.