has money, and because I have none."

"That is not the argument," says Barbara anxiously.

"I think it is."

"It is not. I advise you strongly not to think of Mr. Beauclerk, yet
_he_ has no money to speak of."

"He has more than Freddy."

"But he is a different man from Freddy--with different tastes, different
aspirations, different----He's different," emphatically, "in _every_
way!"

"To be different from the person one loves is not to be a bad man," says
Joyce slowly, her eyes on the ground.

"My dear girl, who has called Mr. Beauclerk a bad man?"

"You don't like him," says Miss Kavanagh, still more slowly, still with
thoughtful eyes downcast.

"I like Mr. Dysart better if you mean that."

"No, I don't mean that. And, besides, that is no answer."

"Was there a question?"

"Yes. Why don't you like Mr. Beauclerk?"

"Have I said I didn't like him?"

"Not in so many words, but----Well, why don't you?"

"I don't know," rather lamely.

Miss Kavanagh laughs a little satirically, and Mrs. Monkton, objecting
to mirth of that description, takes fire.

"Why do you _like_ him?" asks she defiantly.

"I don't know either," returns Joyce, with a rueful smile. "And after
all I'm not sure that I like him so _very_ much. You evidently imagine
me to be head over ears in love with him, yet I, myself, scarcely know
whether I like him or not."

"You always look at him so kindly, and you always pull your skirts aside
to give him a place by your side."

"I should do that for Tommy."

"Would you? That would be _too_ kind," says Tommy's mother, laughing.
"It would mean ruin to your skirts in two minutes."

"But, consider the gain. The priceless scraps, of wisdom I should hear,
even whilst my clothes were being demolished."

This has been a mere interlude, unintentional on the part of either,
and, once over, neither knows how to go on. The question _must_ be
settled one way or the other.

"There is one thing," says Mrs. Monkton, at length, "You certainly
prefer Mr. Beauclerk to Mr. Dysart."

"Do I? I wish I knew as much about myself as you know about me. And,
after all, it is of no consequence whom I like. The real thing
is----Come, Barbara, you who know so much can tell me this----"

"Well?" says Mrs. Monkton, seeing she has grown very red, and is
evidently hesitating.

"No. This absurd conversation has gone far enough. I was going to ask
you to solve a riddle, but----"

"But what?"

"You are too seriou