"Don't stop him," says Mr. Dysart, glancing at Joyce's crimson cheeks with something of disfavor. "'What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba?' I _defy_ you," a little stormily, "to think I care a farthing for Miss Maliphant or for any other woman on earth--_save one_!" "Oh, you mustn't press your confidences on me," says she, smiling and dissembling rather finely; "I know nothing. I accuse you of nothing. Only, Tommy, you were a little rude, weren't you?" "I wasn't," says Tommy, promptly, in whom the inborn instinct of self-defence has been largely developed. "It's true. Nurse says she has a voice like a cow. Is _that_ true?" turning, unabashed to Dysart. "She's expected at the Castle, next week. You shall come up and judge for yourself," says he, laughing. "And," turning to Joyce, "you will come, too, I hope." "It is manners to wait to be asked," returns she, smiling. "Oh, as for that," says he, "Lady Baltimore crossed last night with me and her husband. And here is a letter for you." He pulls a note of the cocked hat order out of one of his pockets. CHAPTER IV. "Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply." "An invitation from Lady Baltimore," says Joyce, looking at the big red crest, and coloring slightly. "Yes." "How do you know?" asks she, rather suspiciously. The young man raises his hands and eyes. "I _swear_ I had nothing to do with it," says he, "I didn't so much as hint at it. Lady Baltimore spent her time crossing the Channel in declaring to all who were well enough to hear her, that she lived only in the expectation of soon seeing you again." "Nonsense!" scornfully; "it is only a month ago since I was staying there, just before they went to London. By the bye, what brings them home now? In the very beginning of their season?" "_I_ don't know. And it is as well not to inquire perhaps. Baltimore and my cousin, as all the world knows, have not hit it off together. Yet when Isabel married him, we all thought it was quite an ideal marriage, they were so much in love with each other." "Hot love soon cools," says Miss Kavanagh in a general sort of way. "I don't believe it," sturdily, "if it's the right sort of love. However, to go back to your letter--which you haven't even deigned to open--you _will_ accept the invitation, won't you?" "I don't know," hesitating. "Oh! I say, _do_ come! It is only for a week, and even if it does bore you, still, as a Christian, you ought to consider how much, even in that short time, you will be able to add to the happiness of your fellow creatures." "Flattery means insincerity," says she, tilting her chin, "keep all that sort of thing for your Miss Maliphant; it is thrown away upon me."