e fact that his sister smiled only when she
felt she must to avoid comment, and that his host refused to smile at
all, and that Miss Kavanagh was evidently on thorns all the time did not
for an instant damp his overflowing spirits.

* * * * *

It is now seven, o'clock; Miss Kavanagh, on her way upstairs to dress
for dinner, suddenly remembering that there is a book in the library,
left by her early in the afternoon on the central table, turns aside to
fetch it.

She forgets, however, what she has come for when, having entered the
room, she sees Dysart standing before the fire, staring apparently at
nothing. To her chagrin, she is conscious that the unmistakable start
she had made on seeing him is known to him.

"I didn't know you had returned," says she awkwardly, yet made a
courageous effort to appear as natural as usual.

"No? I knew you had returned," says he slowly.

"It is very late to say good-morning," says she with a poor little
attempt at a laugh, but still advancing toward him and holding out her
hand.

"Too late!" replied he, ignoring the hand. Joyce, as if struck by some
cruel blow, draws back a step or two.

"You are not tired, I hope?" asks Dysart courteously.

"Oh, no." She feels stifled; choked. A desire to get to the door, and
escape--lose sight of him forever--is the one strong longing that
possesses her; but to move requires strength, and she feels that her
limbs are trembling beneath her.

"It was a long drive, however. And the storm was severe. I fear you must
have suffered in some way."

"I have not suffered," says she, in a dull, emotionless way. Indeed, she
hardly knows what she says, a repetition of his own words seems the
easiest thing to bar, so she adopts it.

"No?"

There is a considerable pause, and then----

"No! It is true! It is I only who have suffered," says Dysart with an
uncontrollable abandonment to the misery that is destroying him. "I
alone."

"You mean something," says Joyce. It is by a terrible effort that she
speaks. She feels thoroughly unnerved--unstrung. Conscious that the
nervous shaking of her hands will betray her, she clasps them behind her
tightly. "You meant something just now when you refused to take my hand.
But what? What?"

"You said it was too late," replies he. "And I--agreed with you."

"That was not it!" says she feverishly. "There was more--much more! Tell
me"--passionately--"what you meant. Why would you n