driven to do something or
other to avoid suicide or the murdering of each other; gossip unlimited
is their safety valve.

"Yes, and Beauclerk," persists Dysart, a touch of despair at his heart;
"you and he were good friends when last he was over, eh?"

"I am generally very good friends with everybody; not an altogether
desirable character, not a strong one," says she smiling, and still
openly parrying the question.

"You liked Beauclerk," says he, a little doggedly perhaps.

"Ye--es--very well."

"Very _much_! Why can't you be _honest_!" says he flashing out at her.

"I don't know what you mean," coldly. "If, however, you persist on my
looking into it, I--" defiantly--"yes, I _do_ like Mr. Beauclerk very
much."

"Well, I don't know what you see in that fellow."

"Nothing," airily, having now recovered herself, "that's his charm."

"If," gravely, "you gave that as your opinion of Dicky Browne I could
believe you."

She laughs.

"Poor Dicky," says she, "what a cruel judgment; and yet you are right;"
she has changed her whole manner, and is now evidently bent on restoring
him to good humor, and compelling him to forget all about Mr. Beauclerk.
"I must give in to you about Dicky. There isn't even the vaguest
suggestion of meaning about _him_. I--" with a deliberate friendly
glance flung straight into his eyes--"don't often give in to you, do I?"

On this occasion, however, her coquetry--so generally successful--is
completely thrown away. Dysart, with his dark eyes fixed
uncompromisingly upon hers, makes the next move--an antagonistic one.

"You have a very high opinion of Beauclerk," says he.

"Have I?" laughing uneasily, and refusing to let her rising temper give
way. "We all have our opinions on every subject that comes under our
notice. You have one on this subject evidently."

"Yes, but it is not a high one," says he unpleasantly.

"After all, what does that matter? I don't pretend to understand you. I
will only suggest to you that our opinions are but weak things--mere
prejudices--no more."

"I am not prejudiced against Beauclerk, if you mean that," a little
hotly.

"I didn't," with a light shrug. "Believe me, you think a great deal more
about him than I do."

"Are you sure of that?"

"I am at all events sure of one thing," says she quickly darting at him
a frowning glance, "that you have no right to ask me that question."

"I have not indeed," acknowledges he stiffly still, but with so open