it. Last night,
over that final cigar, he had made up his mind that it would be wise to
say to her some little thing that would unmistakably awaken her to the
fact that there was nothing between him and her of any serious
importance. Now, having covered half the distance that lies between them
and the Court, he feels will be a good time to say that little thing.
She is too distrait to please him. She is evidently brooding over
something. If she thinks----Better crush all such hopes at once.

"I wonder what they are thinking about us at home?" he says presently,
with quite a cheerful laugh, suggestive of amusement.

No answer.

"I daresay," with a second edition of the laugh, full now of a wider
amusement, as though the comical fancy that has caught hold of him has
grown to completion, "I shouldn't wonder, indeed, if they were thinking
we had eloped." This graceful speech he makes with the easiest air in
the world.

"They may be thinking you have eloped, certainly," says Miss Kavanagh
calmly. "One's own people, as a rule, know one very thoroughly, and are
quite alive to one's little failings; but that they should think it of
me is quite out of the question."

"Well, after all, I daresay you are right. I don't suppose it lies in
the possibilities. They could hardly think it of me either," says
Beauclerk, with a careless yawn, so extraordinarily careless indeed as
to be worthy of note. "I'm too poor for amusement of that kind."

"One couldn't be too poor for that kind of amusement, surely. Romance
and history have both taught us that it is only the impecunious who ever
indulge in that folly."

"I am not so learned as you are, but----Well, I'm an 'impecunious one,'
in all conscience. I couldn't carry it out. I only wish," tenderly, "I
could."

"With whom?" icily. As she asks the question she turns deliberately and
looks him steadily in the eyes. Something in her regard disconcerts him,
and compels him to think that the following up of the "little thing" is
likely to prove difficult.

"How can you ask me?" demands he with an assumption of reproachful
fondness that is rather overdone.

"I do, nevertheless."

"With you, then--if I must put it in words," says he, lowering his tone
to the softest whisper. It is an eminently lover-like whisper; it is a
distinctly careful one, too. It is quite impossible for Mrs. Connolly,
sitting behind, to hear it, however carefully she may be attending.

"It is well you cannot p