"And it is now twenty minutes after five," says Lady Swansdown,
maliciously, who detests Beauclerk and who has read his relations with
Joyce as clear as a book. "How she must have enjoyed herself!"

"Yes; but where?" says Lady Baltimore anxiously. Joyce has been left in
her charge, and, apart from that, she likes the girl well enough, to be
uneasy about her when occasion arises.

"With whom would be a more appropriate question," says Dicky Browne,
who, as usual, is just where he ought not to be.

"Oh, I know where she is," cries a little, shrill voice from the
background. It comes from Tommy, and from that part of the room where
Tommy and Mabel and little Bertie are having a game behind the window
curtains. Blocks, dolls, kitchens, farm yards, ninepins--all have been
given to them as a means of keeping them quiet. One thing only has been
forgotten: the fact that the human voice divine is more attractive to
them, more replete with delightful mystery, fuller of enthralling
possibilities than all the toys that ever yet were made.

"Thomas, are you fully alive to the responsibilities to which you pledge
yourself?" demands Mr. Browne severely.

"What?" says Tommy.

"Do you pledge yourself to declare where Miss Kavanagh is now?"

"Is it Joyce?" says Tommy, coming forward and standing undaunted in his
knickerbockers and an immaculate collar that defies suspicion.

"Yes--Joyce," says Mr. Browne, who never can hold his tongue.

"Well, I know." Tommy pauses, and an unearthly silence falls on the
assembled company. Half the county is present, and as Tommy, in the
character of _reconteur_, is widely known and deservedly dreaded,
expectation spreads itself among his audience.

Lady Baltimore moves uneasily, and for once Dicky Browne feels as if he
should like to sink into his boot.

"She's up on the top of the hill with Mr. Dysart," says Tommy, and no
more. Lady Baltimore sighs with relief, and Mr. Browne feels now as if
he should like to give Tommy something.

"How do you know?" asks Beauclerk, as though he finds it impossible to
repress the question.

"Because I saw her there," says Tommy, "when Mabel and me was coming
here. I like Mr. Dysart, don't you?" addressing Beauclerk specially. "He
is a very kind sort of man. He gave me half a crown."

"For what, Tommy?" asks Baltimore, idly, to whom Tommy is an unfailing
joy.

"To go away and leave him alone with Joyce," says Tommy, with awful
distinctness.

Tablea