s she, faintly.

"I don't believe you know what you are doing," cries he, losing his
self-control for once in his life. "You will regret this. For a moment
of spite, of ill-temper, you----"

"Why should I be ill-tempered about anything that concerns you and me?"
says she, very gently still. She has grown even whiter, however, and has
lifted her head so that her large eyes are directed straight to his.
Something in the calm severity of her look chills him.

"Ah! you know best!" says he, viciously. The game is up--is thoroughly
played out. This he acknowledges to himself, and the knowledge does not
help to sweeten his temper. It helps him, however, to direct a last
shaft at her. Taking up his hat, he makes a movement to depart, and then
looks back at her. His overweening vanity is still alive.

"When you do regret it," says he--"and I believe that will be soon--it
will be too late. You had the goodness to give me a warning a few
minutes ago--I give you one now."

"I shall not regret it," says she, coolly.

"Not even when Dysart has sailed for India, and then 'the girl he left
behind him' is disconsolate?" asks he, with an insolent laugh. "Ha! that
touches you!"

It had touched her. She looks like a living thing stricken suddenly into
marble, as she stands gazing back at him, with her hands tightly
clenched before her. India! To India! And she had never heard.

Extreme anger, however, fights with her grief, and, overcoming it,
enables her to answer her adversary.

"I think you, too, will feel regret," says she, gravely, "when you look
back upon your conduct to me to-day."

There is such gentleness, such dignity, in her rebuke, and her beautiful
face is so full of a mute reproach, that all the good there is in
Beauclerk rises to the surface. He flings his hat upon a table near, and
himself at her feet.

"Forgive me!" cries he, in a stifled tone. "Have mercy on me, Joyce!--I
love you--I swear it! Do not cast me adrift! All I have said or done I
regret now! You said I should regret, and I do."

Something in his abasement disgusts the girl, instead of creating pity
in her breast. She shakes herself free of him by a sharp and horrified
movement.

"You must go home," she says calmly, yet with a frowning brow, "and you
must not come here again. I told, you it was all useless, but you would
not listen. No, no; not a word!" He has risen to his feet, and would
have advanced toward her, but she waves him from her with