"She is a very honest, kind-hearted girl," says Miss Kavanagh a little
heavily. It suggests itself to Mr. Browne that she has not been
listening to him.

"And a very rich one."

"I never think about that when I am with her. I couldn't."

"Beauclerk could," says Mr. Browne, tersely.

There is another rather long silence, and Dicky is beginning to think he
has gone a trifle too far, and that Miss Kavanagh will cut him
to-morrow, when she speaks again. Her tone is composed, but icy enough
to freeze him.

"It is a mistake," says she, "to discuss people towards whom one feels a
natural antagonism. It leads, one, perhaps, to say more than one
actually means. One is apt to grow unjust. I would never discuss Mr.
Beauclerk if I were you. You don't like him."

"Well," says Mr. Browne, thoughtfully, "since you put it to me, I
confess I think he is the most rubbishy person I ever met!"

After this sweeping opinion, conversation comes to a deadlock. It is not
resumed. Reaching the stone steps leading to the conservatory, they
ascend them in silence, and reach that perfumed retreat to find Dysart
on the threshold.

"Oh, there you are!" cries he to Miss Kavanagh. "I thought you lost for
good and all!" His face has lighted up. Perhaps he feels a sense of
relief at finding her with Dicky, who is warranted harmless. He looks
almost handsome, better than handsome! The very soul of honesty shines,
in his kind eyes.

"Oh! it is hard to lose what nobody wants," says Joyce in a would-be
playful tone, but something in the drawn, pained lines about her mouth
belies her mirth. Dysart, after a swift examination of her face, takes
her hand and draws it within his arm.

"The last was our dance," says he.

"Speak kindly of the dead," says Mr. Browne, as he beats a hasty
retreat.

CHAPTER XV.

"Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly;
Most friendship is feigning, most loving is folly."

"Did you forget?" asks Dysart, looking at her.

"Forget?"

"That the last dance was mine?"

"Oh, was it? I'm so sorry. You must forgive me," with a feverish attempt
at gayety, "I will try to make amends. You shall have this one instead,
no matter to whom it may belong. Come. It is only just begun, I think."

"Never mind," says Dysart, gently. "We won't dance this, I think. It is
cool and quiet here, and you are tired."

"Oh, so tired," returns she with a little sudden pathetic cry, so
impulsive, so inexpressible that it