"She doesn't live here," says Miss Kavanagh. "Dicky"--changing her tone suddenly and looking at him with earnest eyes. "What is this I hear about Lady Baltimore and her husband? Be sensible now, do, and tell me." "They're going abroad together--with Bertie. They've made it up," says he, growing as sensible as even she can desire. "It is such a complete make up all round that they didn't even ask me to go with them. However, I'm determined to join them at Nice on their return from Egypt. Too much billing and cooing is bad for people." "I'm so glad," says Joyce, her eyes filling with tears. "They are two such dear people, and if it hadn't been for Lady--By the by, where is Lady Swansdown?" "Russia, I think." "Well, I liked her, too," says Joyce, with a sigh; "but she wasn't good for Baltimore, was she?" "Not very!" says Mr. Browne, dryly. "I should say, on the whole, that she disagreed with him. Tonics are sometimes dangerous." "I'm so delighted," says Joyce, still thinking of Lady Baltimore. "Well," smiling at him, "why don't you go in and see Barbara?" "I have seen her, talked with her a long while, and bid her adieu. I was on my way back to the Court, having failed in my hope of seeing you, when I found this delightful nest of earwigs, and thought I'd stay and confabulate with them a while in default of better companions." "Poor Dicky!" says she. "Come with me, then, and I'll talk to you for half an hour." "Too late!" says he, looking at his watch. "There is only one thing left me now to, say to you, and that is, 'Good-by.'" "Why this mad haste?" "Ah, ha! I Can have my little secrets, too," says he. "A whisper in your ear," leaning toward her. "No, thank you," says she, waving him off with determination. "I remember your last whisper. There! if you can't stay, Dicky, good by indeed. I'm going for a walk." She turns away resolutely, leaving Mr. Browne to sink back upon the seat and continue his reading, or else to go and meet that secret he spoke of. "I say," calls he, running after her. "You may as well see me as far as the gate, any way." It is evident the book at least has lost its charms. Miss Kavanagh not being stony hearted so far gives in as to walk with him to a side gate, and having finally bidden him adieu, goes back to the summer house he has quitted, and, opening her book, prepares to enjoy herself. Vain preparation! It is plain that the fates are against her to-day. She is no sooner seated, with her book of poetry open on her knee, than a little flying form turns the corner and Tommy precipitates himself upon her. "What are you doing?" asks he. CHAPTER LIX. "Lips are so like flowers I might snatch at those Redder than the rose leaves, Sweeter than the rose." "Love is a great master." "I am reading," says she. "Can't you see that?" "Read to me, then," says Tommy, scrambling up on the bench beside her and snuggling himself under her arm. "I love to hear people."