I don't see how he should take it, anyway," says Joyce, coldly.

"Not even with soda water?" says her brother-in-law. "Of course, it
would be too much to expect him to take it neat. You broke it gently to
him I hope."

"Ah, you don't understand Mr. Dysart," says the girl, rising abruptly.
"I did not understand him until yesterday."

"Is he so very abstruse?"

"He is very insolent," says Miss Kavanagh, with a sudden touch of fire,
that makes her sister look at her with some uneasiness.

"I see," says Mr. Monkton, slowly. He still, unfortunately, looks
amused. "One never does know anybody until he or she gives way to a
towering passion. So he gave you a right good scolding for being caught
in the rain with Beauclerk. A little unreasonable, surely; but lovers
never yet were famous for their common sense. That little ingredient was
forgotten in their composition. And so he gave you a lecture?"

"Well, he is not likely to do it again," says she slowly.

"No? Then it is more than likely that I shall be the one to be scolded
presently. He won't be able to content himself with silence. He will
want to air his grievances, to revenge them on some one, and if you
refuse to see him, I shall be that one. There is really only one small
remark to be made about this whole matter," says Mr. Monkton, with a
rueful smile, "and it remains for me to make it. If you will encourage
two suitors at the same time, my good child, the least you may expect is
trouble. You are bound to look out for 'breakers ahead,' but (and this
is the remark) it is very hard lines for a fourth and most innocent
person to have those suitors dropped straight on him without a second's
notice. I'm not a born warrior; the brunt of the battle is a sort of
gayety that I confess myself unsuited for. I haven't been educated up to
it. I----"

"There will be no battle," says Joyce, in a strange tone, "because there
will be no combatants. For a battle there must be something to fight
for, and here there is nothing. You are all wrong, Freddy. You will find
out that after awhile. I have a headache, Barbara. I think," raising her
lovely but pained eyes to her sister, "I should like to go into the
garden for a little bit. The air there is always so sweet."

"Go, darling," says Barbara, whose own eyes have filled with tears. "Oh,
Freddy," turning reproachfully to her husband as the door closes on
Joyce, "how could you so have taken her? You must have seen how unhappy
she