a very aristocratic-looking man, tall, with large limbs, and big
indeed, in every way. His eyes are light, his nose a handsome Roman, his
forehead massive, and if not grand in the distinctly intellectual way,
still a fine forehead and impressive. His hands are of a goodly size,
but exquisitely proportioned, and very white, the skin almost delicate.
He is rather like his sister, Lady Baltimore, and yet so different from
her in every way that the distinct resemblance that is surely there
torments the observer.

"_Why!_" says Joyce. It is the most foolish exclamation and means
nothing, but she finds herself a little taken off her guard. "I didn't
know you were here!" She has half risen.

"Neither did I--how d'ye do, Dysart?--until half an hour ago. Won't you
shake hands?"

He holds out his own hand to her as he speaks. There is a quizzical
light in his eyes as he speaks, nothing to offend, but one can see that
he finds amusement in the fact that the girl has been so much impressed
by his unexpected appearance that she has even forgotten the small usual
act of courtesy with which we greet our friends. She had, indeed, been
dead to everything but his coming.

"You came----" falters she, stammering a little, as she notes her
mistake.

"By the mid-day train; I gave myself just time to snatch a sandwich from
Purdon (the butler), say a word or two to my sister, whom I found in the
garden, and then came on here to ask you to play this next game with
me."

"Oh! I am so sorry, but I have promised it to----"

The words are out of her mouth before she has realized the fact that
Dysart is listening--Dysart, who is lying at her feet, watching every
expression in her mobile face. She colors hotly, and looks down at him
confused, lovely.

"I didn't mean--_that_!" says she, trying to smile indifferently,
"Only----"

"_Don't!_" says Dysart, not loudly, not curtly, yet in so strange and
decided a way that it renders her silent. "You mustn't mind me," says
he, a second later, in his usual calm tone. "I know you and Beauclerk
are wonderful players. You can give me a game later on."

"A capital arrangement," says Beauclerk, comfortably sinking into a
chair beside her, with all the lazy manner of a man at peace with
himself and his world, "especially as I shall have to go in presently to
write some letters for the evening post."

He places his elbows on the arms of the chair, brings the ends of his
fingers together, and beams adm