"Yes, you needn't go over it all. Mr. Dysart is about on a level with me, he will _never_ have any money, neither shall I." Suddenly she looks round at her sister, her eyes very bright. "Tell me then," says she, "what does it all come to? That I am bound to refuse to marry a man because he has money, and because I have none." "That is not the argument," says Barbara anxiously. "I think it is." "It is not. I advise you strongly not to think of Mr. Beauclerk, yet _he_ has no money to speak of." "He has more than Freddy." "But he is a different man from Freddy--with different tastes, different aspirations, different----He's different," emphatically, "in _every_ way!" "To be different from the person one loves is not to be a bad man," says Joyce slowly, her eyes on the ground. "My dear girl, who has called Mr. Beauclerk a bad man?" "You don't like him," says Miss Kavanagh, still more slowly, still with thoughtful eyes downcast. "I like Mr. Dysart better if you mean that." "No, I don't mean that. And, besides, that is no answer." "Was there a question?" "Yes. Why don't you like Mr. Beauclerk?" "Have I said I didn't like him?" "Not in so many words, but----Well, why don't you?" "I don't know," rather lamely. Miss Kavanagh laughs a little satirically, and Mrs. Monkton, objecting to mirth of that description, takes fire. "Why do you _like_ him?" asks she defiantly. "I don't know either," returns Joyce, with a rueful smile. "And after all I'm not sure that I like him so _very_ much. You evidently imagine me to be head over ears in love with him, yet I, myself, scarcely know whether I like him or not." "You always look at him so kindly, and you always pull your skirts aside to give him a place by your side." "I should do that for Tommy." "Would you? That would be _too_ kind," says Tommy's mother, laughing. "It would mean ruin to your skirts in two minutes." "But, consider the gain. The priceless scraps, of wisdom I should hear, even whilst my clothes were being demolished." This has been a mere interlude, unintentional on the part of either, and, once over, neither knows how to go on. The question _must_ be settled one way or the other. "There is one thing," says Mrs. Monkton, at length, "You certainly prefer Mr. Beauclerk to Mr. Dysart." "Do I? I wish I knew as much about myself as you know about me. And, after all, it is of no consequence whom I like. The real thing is----Come, Barbara, you who know so much can tell me this----" "Well?" says Mrs. Monkton, seeing she has grown very red, and is evidently hesitating. "No. This absurd conversation has gone far enough. I was going to ask you to solve a riddle, but----" "But what?" "You are too serious about it." "Not _too_ serious. It is very important."