bove his head as one might
who is flinging from him the remembrance of an unpleasant dream.

"The sun here is intolerable," says Lady Swansdown, rising too. "More
than one can endure. Thanks, dear Felix, for your suggestion. I should
never have thought of the glade if you hadn't asked me to play that
impossible game."

She smiles a little maliciously at Dysart, and, accompanied by Lord
Baltimore, moves away from the assembled groups upon the lawn to the dim
recesses of the leafy glade.

"_Sold!_" says Mr. Browne to Dysart. It is always impossible to Dicky to
hold his tongue. "But you needn't look so cut up about it. 'Tisn't good
enough, my dear fellow. I know 'em both by heart. Baltimore is as much
in love with her as he is with his Irish tenants, but his imagination is
his strong point, and it pleases him to think he has found at last for
the twentieth time a solace for all his woes in the disinterested love
of somebody, it really never much matters who."

"There is more in it than _you_ think," says Dysart gloomily.

"Not a fraction!" airily.

"And what of her? Lady Swansdown?"

"Of her! Her heart has been in such constant use for years that by this
time it must be in tatters. Give up thinking about that. Ah! here is my
beloved girl again!" He makes an elaborate gesture of delight as he sees
Joyce advancing in his direction. "_Dear_ Joyce!" beaming on her, "who
shall say there is nothing in animal magnetism. Here I have been just
talking about you to Dysart, and telling him what a lost soul I feel
when you're away, and instantly, as if in answer to my keen desire, you
appear before me."

"Why aren't you playing tennis?" demands Miss Kavanagh, with a cruel
disregard of this flowery speech.

"Because I was waiting for you."

"Well, I'll beat you," says she, "I always do."

"Not if you play on my side," reproachfully.

"What! Have you for a _partner_! Nonsense, Dicky, you know I shouldn't
dream of that. Why it is as much as ever you can do to put the ball over
the net."

"'Twas ever thus,'" quotes Mr. Browne mournfully. "The sincerest worship
gains only scorn and contumely. But never mind! the day will come!----"

"To an end," says Miss Kavanagh, giving a finish to his sentence never
meant. "That," cheerfully, "is just what I think. If we don't have a
game now, the shades of night will be on us before we can look round
us."

"Will you play with me?" says Dysart.

"With pleasure. Keep your eye on this