say all that?" says Beauclerk lightly, coloring a little,
nevertheless, as he marks the fine smile that is curling Joyce's lips.
"Why, then," gayly, "if I said it, I meant it. If I hesitated about
indorsing my intentions publicly, it is because one is never sure of
happiness beforehand; believe me, Miss Maliphant," with a little bow-to
her, but with a direct glance at Joyce, "every desire I have is centered
in the hope that next spring may see me here again."

"Well, I expect we all have the same wish," says Miss Maliphant
cheerfully, who has not caught that swift glance at Joyce. "I'm sure I
hope that nothing will interfere with my coming here in February."

"It is agreed, then," says Beauclerk, with a delightfully comprehensive
smile that seems to take in every one, even the plants and the dripping
fountain and the little marble god in the corner, who is evidently
listening with all his might. "We all meet here again early next year if
the fates be propitious. You, Dysart, you pledge yourself to join our
circle then?"

"I pledge myself," says Dysart, fixing a cold gaze on him. It is so
cold, so distinctly hostile, that Beauclerk grows uncomfortable beneath
it. When uncomfortable his natural bias leads him towards a display of
bonhomie.

"Here we have before us a prospect to cheer the soul of any man,"
declares he, shifting his eyes from Dysart to Miss Maliphant.

"It cheers me certainly," responds that heavy maiden with alacrity. "I
like to think we shall all meet again."

"Like the witches in Macbeth," says Joyce, indifferently.

"But not so malignantly, I hope," says the heiress brilliantly, who,
like most worthy people, can never see beyond her own nose. "For my part
I like old friends much better than new." She looks round for the
appreciation that should attend this sound remark, and is gratified to
find Dysart is smiling at her. Perhaps the core of that smile might not
have been altogether to her taste--most cores are difficult of
digestion. To her, to whom all things are new, where does the flavor of
the old come in?

Beauclerk is looking at Joyce.

"I hope the prospect cheers you too," says he a little sharply, as if
nettled by her determined silence and bent on making her declare
herself. "You, I trust, will be here next February."

"Sure to be!" says she with an enigmatical smile. "Not a jot or tittle
of your enjoyments will be lost to you in the coming year. Both your
friends--Miss Maliphant an