was. And all about that horrid Beauclerk."

Monkton stares at her.

"So that is how you read it," says he at last.

"There is no difficulty about the reading. Could it be in larger print?"

"Large enough, certainly, as to the unhappiness, but for 'Beauclerk' I
should advise the printer to insert Dysart.'"

"Dysart? Felix?"

"Unless, indeed, you could suggest a third."

"Nonsense!" says Mrs. Monkton, contemptuously. "She has never cared for
poor Felix. How I wish she had. He is worth a thousand of the other; but
girls are so perverse."

"They are. That is just my point," says her husband. "Joyce is so
perverse that she won't allow herself to see that it is Dysart she
preferred. However, there is one comfort, she is paying for her
perversity."

"Freddy," says his wife, after a long pause, "do you really think that?"

"What? That girls are perverse?"

"No, no! That she likes Felix best?"

"That is indeed my fixed belief."

"Oh, Freddy!" cries his wife, throwing herself into his arms. "How
beautiful of you, I've always wanted to think that, but never could
until now--now that----"

"My clear judgment has been brought to bear upon it. Quite right, my
dear, always regard your husband as a sort of demi-god, who----"

"Pouf!" says she. "Do you think I was born without a grain of sense? But
really, Freddy----Oh! if it might be! Poor, poor darling! how sad she
looked. If they have had a serious quarrel over her drive with that
detestable Beauclerk--why--I----" Here she bursts into tears, and with
her face buried on Monkton's waistcoat, makes little wild dabs at the
air with a right hand that is only to be appeased by having Monkton's
handkerchief thrust into it.

"What a baby you are!" says he, giving her a loving little shake. "I
declare, you were well named. The swift transitions from the tremendous
'Barbara' to the inconsequent 'Baby' takes but an instant, and exactly
expresses you. A moment ago you were bent on withering me: now, I am
going to wither you."

"Oh, no! don't," says she, half laughing, half crying. "And besides, it
is you who are inconsequent. You never keep to one point for a second."

"Why should I?" says he, "when it is such a disagreeable one. There let
us give up for the day. We can write 'To be continued' after it, and
begin a fresh chapter to-morrow."

* * * * *

Meantime, Joyce, making her way to the garden with a hope of finding
there, at all even