"The Clontarfs are to be there too," goes on Dysart, who is a cousin of Lady Baltimore's, and knows all about her arrangements; "and the Brownings, and Norman Beauclerk." "The--Clontarfs," says Joyce, in a hurried way, that might almost be called confused; to the man who loves her, and who is watching her, it is quite plain that she is not thinking of Lord and Lady Clontarf, who are quite an ordinary couple and devoted to each other, but of that last name spoken--Norman Beauclerk; Lady Baltimore's brother, a man, handsome, agreeable, aristocratic--the man whose attentions to her a month ago had made a little topic for conversation amongst the country people. Dull country people who never go anywhere or see anything beyond their stupid selves, and who are therefore driven to do something or other to avoid suicide or the murdering of each other; gossip unlimited is their safety valve. "Yes, and Beauclerk," persists Dysart, a touch of despair at his heart; "you and he were good friends when last he was over, eh?" "I am generally very good friends with everybody; not an altogether desirable character, not a strong one," says she smiling, and still openly parrying the question. "You liked Beauclerk," says he, a little doggedly perhaps. "Ye--es--very well." "Very _much_! Why can't you be _honest_!" says he flashing out at her. "I don't know what you mean," coldly. "If, however, you persist on my looking into it, I--" defiantly--"yes, I _do_ like Mr. Beauclerk very much." "Well, I don't know what you see in that fellow." "Nothing," airily, having now recovered herself, "that's his charm." "If," gravely, "you gave that as your opinion of Dicky Browne I could believe you." She laughs. "Poor Dicky," says she, "what a cruel judgment; and yet you are right;" she has changed her whole manner, and is now evidently bent on restoring him to good humor, and compelling him to forget all about Mr. Beauclerk. "I must give in to you about Dicky. There isn't even the vaguest suggestion of meaning about _him_. I--" with a deliberate friendly glance flung straight into his eyes--"don't often give in to you, do I?" On this occasion, however, her coquetry--so generally successful--is completely thrown away. Dysart, with his dark eyes fixed uncompromisingly upon hers, makes the next move--an antagonistic one. "You have a very high opinion of Beauclerk," says he. "Have I?" laughing uneasily, and refusing to let her rising temper give way. "We all have our opinions on every subject that comes under our notice. You have one on this subject evidently." "Yes, but it is not a high one," says he unpleasantly. "After all, what does that matter? I don't pretend to understand you. I will only suggest to you that our opinions are but weak things--mere prejudices--no more." "I am not prejudiced against Beauclerk, if you mean that," a little hotly. "I didn't," with a light shrug. "Believe me, you think a great deal more about him than I do."