"Dear fellow, how? where? unless one discovers a _mine_ or an African diamond-field?" "Or an heiress," says Dysart, incidentally. "Hah! lucky dog, that comes home to _you_," says Beauclerk, giving him a playful pat on his shoulder, and stooping from his chair to do it, as Dysart still sits upon the grass. "Not to me." "No? You _will_ be modest? Well, well! But talking of that old place, I assure you, Miss Kavanagh, it worries me--it does, indeed. It sounds like one's _duty_ to restore it, and still----" "There are better things than even an old place," says Dysart. "Ah! you haven't one you see," cries Beauclerk, with the utmost geniality. "If you had----I really think if you had you would understand that it requires a sacrifice to give it up to moths and rust and ruin." "I said there were better things than old places," says Dysart doggedly, never looking in his direction. "And if there are, _make_ a sacrifice." "Pouf! Lucky fellows like you--gay soldier lads--with hearts as light as sunbeams, can easily preach; but sacrifices are not so easily made. There is that horrid word, Duty! And a man must sometimes _think_!" Joyce, as though the last word has struck some answering chord that wounds her as it strikes, looks suddenly at him. _What_ was it Barbara had said? "He was a man who would always _think_,"--is he thinking now--even now--at this moment?--is he weighing matters in his mind? "Hah!" says Beauclerk rising and pointing to the court nearest them; "_that_ game is over. Come on, Miss Kavanagh, let us go and get our scalps. I say, Dysart, will you fight it out with us?" "No thanks." "Afraid?" gaily. "Of you--no," smiling; the smile is admirably done, and would be taken as the genuine article anywhere. "Of Miss Kavanagh; then?" For a brief instant, and evidently against his wish, Dysart's eyes meet those of Joyce. "Perhaps," says he. "A poor compliment to me," says Beauclerk, with his pleasant laugh that always rings _so_ softly. "Well, never mind; I forgive you. Get a good partner, my dear fellow, and _she_ may pull you through. You see I depend entirely upon mine," with a glance at Joyce, full of expression. "There's Miss Maliphant now--she'd make a good partner if you like." "I shouldn't," says Dysart, immovably. "She plays a good game, I can tell you." "So do you," says Dysart. "Oh, now, Dysart, don't be sarcastic," says Beauclerk laughing. "I believe you are afraid of me, not of Miss Kavanagh, and that's why you won't play. But if you were to put yourself in Miss Maliphant's hands, I don't say but that you would have a chance of beating me." "I shall beat you by myself or not at all," says Dysart suddenly, and for the first time looking fair at him. "A single, you mean?" "Yes, a single." "Well--we shall see," says Beauclerk. "Hah, there is Courtenay. Come along, Miss Kavanagh, we must make up a set as best we may, as Dysart is too lazy to face us."