"Yes," says Joyce in a low tone. It has not occurred to her that his words are a question rather than an asseveration. That he loves her, seems to her certain. A soft glow illumines her cheeks; her eyes sink beneath his; the idea that she is happy, or at all events _ought_ to be happy, fills her with a curious wonderment. Do people always feel so strange, so surprised, so _unsure_, when love comes to them? "Yet you _did_ doubt," says Beauclerk, giving her hand a last pressure, and now nestling back amongst his cushions with all the air of a man who has fought and conquered and has been given his reward. "Well, don't let us throw an unpleasant memory into this happy hour. As I have said," taking up her fan and idly, if gracefully, waving it to and fro, "after all the turmoil of the fight it is sweet to find oneself at last in the haven where one would be." He is smiling at Joyce--the gayest, the most candid smile in the world. Smiles become him. He is looking really handsome and _happy_ at finding himself thus alone with her. Sincerity declares itself in every line of his face. Perhaps he _is_ as sincere as he has ever yet been in his life. The one thing that he unquestionably does regard with interest beyond his own poor precious bones, is the exquisite bit of nature's workmanship now sitting beside him. At this present moment, in spite of his flattering words, his smiles and telling glances, she is still a little cold, a little uncertain, a phase of manner that renders her indescribably charming to the one watching her. Beauclerk indeed is enjoying himself immensely. To a man of his temperament to be able to play upon a nature as fine, as honest, as pure as Joyce's is to know a keen delight. That the girl is dissatisfied, vaguely, nervously dissatisfied, he can read as easily as though the workings of her soul lay before him in broad type, and to assuage those half-defined misgivings of hers is a task that suits him. He attacks it _con amore_. "How silent you are," says he, very gently, when he has let quite a long pause occur. "I am tired, I think." "Of me?" "No." "Of what then?" He has found that as a rule there is nothing a woman likes better than to be asked to define her own feelings, Joyce, however, disappoints him. "I don't know. Sitting up so late I suppose." "Look here!" says he, in a voice so full of earnest emotion that Joyce involuntarily stares at him; "_I_ know what is the matter with you. You are fighting against your better nature. You are _trying_ to be ungenerous. You are trying to believe what you know is not true. Tell me--_honestly_ mind--are you not forcing yourself to regard me as a monster of insincerity?" "You are wrong," says she, slowly. "I am forcing myself, on the contrary, to believe you a very giant of sincerity." "And you find that difficult?" "Yes."