ell, I confess I can't quite understand it myself. He couldn't hold a
candle to--er--well, several other fellows I could name, myself not
included, Miss Kavanagh, so that supercilious smile is thrown away. He
may be good to look at, there is certainly plenty of him on which to
feast the eye, but to fall in love with----"

"What do you mean, Dicky? What are you speaking about--do you know?
You," with a deadly desire to insult him, "must be in love yourself
to--to maunder as you are doing?"

"I'm not," says Mr. Browne, "that's the queer part of it. I don't know
what's the matter with me. Ever since you blighted me, I have lain
fallow, as it were. I," dejectedly, "haven't been in love for quite a
long, long time now. I miss it--I can't explain it. I can't be well, can
I? I," anxiously, "I don't look well, do I?"

"I never saw you looking better," with unkind force.

"Ah!" sadly, "that's because you don't give your attention to me. It's
my opinion that I'm fading away to the land o' the leal, like old
What-you-may-call-'em."

"If that's the way he did it, it must have taken him some time. In fact,
he must be still at it," says Miss Kavanagh, heartlessly.

By this time they had come to the end of the walk, and have turned the
corner. Before them lies a small grass plot surrounded by evergreens, a
cosy nook not to be suspected by any one until quite close upon it. It
bursts upon the casual pedestrian, indeed, as a charming surprise. There
is something warm, friendly, confidential about it--something safe.
Beyond lies the gloomy wood, embedded in night, but here the moonbeams
play. Some one with a thoughtful care for loving souls has placed in
this excellent spot for flirtation a comfortable garden seat, just
barely large enough for two, sternly indicative of being far too small
far the leanest three.

Upon this delightful seat four eyes now concentrate themselves. As if by
one consent, although unconsciously, Mr. Browne and his companion come
to a dead stop. The unoffending seat holds them in thrall.

Upon it, evidently on the best of terms with each other, are two people.
One is Miss Maliphant, the other Mr. Beauclerk. They are whispering
"soft and low." Miss Maliphant is looking, perhaps, a little
confused--for her--and the cause of the small confusion is transparent.
Beauclerk's hand is tightly closed over hers, and even as Dicky and Miss
Kavanagh gaze spellbound at them, he lifts the massive hand of the
heiress a