"Ah, yes--that! I am afraid,"--he leans more closely toward her,--"I have often been afraid that you have not quite read me as I ought to be read." "Oh, I have read you," says she, with a little gesture of her head, half confused, half mournful. "But not rightly, perhaps. There have been moments when I fear you may have misjudged me----" "Not one," says she quickly. "Mr. Beauclerk, if I might implore you not to say another word----" "Only one more," pleads he, coming up smiling as usual. "Just one, Joyce--let me say my last word; it may make all the difference in the world between you and me now. I love you--nay, hear me!" She has risen, and he, rising too, takes possession of both her hands. "I have come here to-day to ask you to be my wife; you know that already--but you do not know how I have worshiped you all these dreary months, and how I have kept silent--for your sake." "And for 'my sake' why do you speak now?" asks she. She has withdrawn her hands from his. "What have you to offer me now that you had not a year ago?" After all, it is a great thing to be an accomplished liar. It sticks to Beauclerk now. "Why! Haven't you heard?" asks he, lifting astonished brows. "I have heard nothing!" "Not of my coming appointment? At least"--modestly--"of my chance of it?" "No. Nothing, nothing. And even if I had, it would make no difference. I beg you to understand once for all, Mr. Beauclerk, that I cannot listen to you." "Not now, perhaps. I have been very sudden----" "No, never, never." "Are you telling me that you refuse me?" asks he, looking at her with a rather strange expression in his eyes. "I am sorry you put it that way," returns she, faintly. "I don't believe you know what you are doing," cries he, losing his self-control for once in his life. "You will regret this. For a moment of spite, of ill-temper, you----" "Why should I be ill-tempered about anything that concerns you and me?" says she, very gently still. She has grown even whiter, however, and has lifted her head so that her large eyes are directed straight to his. Something in the calm severity of her look chills him. "Ah! you know best!" says he, viciously. The game is up--is thoroughly played out. This he acknowledges to himself, and the knowledge does not help to sweeten his temper. It helps him, however, to direct a last shaft at her. Taking up his hat, he makes a movement to depart, and then looks back at her. His overweening vanity is still alive. "When you do regret it," says he--"and I believe that will be soon--it will be too late. You had the goodness to give me a warning a few minutes ago--I give you one now." "I shall not regret it," says she, coolly. "Not even when Dysart has sailed for India, and then 'the girl he left behind him' is disconsolate?" asks he, with an insolent laugh. "Ha! that touches you!"