n't have everything in this world.

Perhaps Joyce has more than she wants. It occurs to her, as Beauclerk
turns round from the solitary window, that she could well have dispensed
with his society. That lurking distrust of him she had known vaguely,
but kept under during all their acquaintance, has taken a permanent
place in her mind during her drive with him this afternoon.

"Oh! here you are. Beastly, smoky hole!" he says, taking no notice of
Mrs. Connolly, who is doing her best curtsey in the doorway.

"I think it looks very comfortable," says Joyce, with a gracious smile
at her hostess, and a certain sore feeling at her heart. Once again her
thoughts fly to Dysart. Would that have been his first remark when she
appeared after so severe a wetting?

"'Tis just what I've been sayin' to Miss Kavanagh, sir," says Mrs.
Connolly, with unabated good humor. "The heavens above is always too
much for us. We can't turn off the wather up there as we can the cock in
the kitchen sink. Still, there's compinsations always, glory be! An'
what will ye plaze have wid yer tay, Miss?" turning to Joyce with great
respect in look and tone. In spite of all her familiarity with her
upstairs, she now, with a looker-on, proceeds to treat "her young lady"
as though she were a stranger and of blood royal.

"Anything you have, Mrs. Connolly," says Joyce; "only don't be long!"
There is undoubted entreaty in the request. Mrs. Connolly, glancing at
her, concludes it is not so much a desire for what will be brought, as
for the bringer that animates the speaker.

"Give me five minutes, Miss, an' I'll be back again," says she
pleasantly. Leaving the room, she stands in the passage outside for a
moment, and solemnly moves her kindly head from side to side. It takes
her but a little time to make up her shrewd Irish mind on several
points.

"While this worthy person is getting you your tea I think I'll take a
look at the weather from the outside," says Mr. Beauclerk, turning to
Joyce. It is evident he is eager to avoid a tete-a-tete, but this does
not occur to her.

"Yes--do--do," says she, nevertheless with such a liberal encouragement
as puzzles him. Women are kittle cattle, however, he tells himself;
better not to question their motives too closely or you will find
yourself in queer street. He gets to the door with a cheerful assumption
of going to study the heavens that conceals his desire for a cigar and a
brandy and soda, but on the threshol