"Tommy and I have one desire in common; we both want to be with you." "Could you be bought off like Tommy?" says she, half playfully. "Oh, no! Half a crown would not be good enough." "Would all the riches the world contains be good enough?" says he in a voice very low, but full of emotion. "You know it would not. But you, Joyce--twelve months is a long time. You may see others--if not Beauclerk--others--and----" "Money would not tempt me," says the girl slowly. "If money were your rival, you would indeed be safe. You ought to know that." "Still--Joyce----" He stops suddenly. "May I think of you as Joyce? I have called you so once or twice, but----" "You may always call me so," says she gently, if indifferently. "All my friends call me so, and you--are my friend, surely!" The very sweetness of her manner, cold as ice as it is, drives him to desperation. "Not your friend--your lover!" says he with sudden passion. "Joyce, think of all that I have said--all you nave promised. A small matter to you perhaps--the whole world to me. You will wait for me for twelve months. You will try to love me. You----" "Yes, but there is something more to be said," cries the girl, springing to her feet as if in violent protest, and confronting him with a curious look--set--determined--a little frightened perhaps. CHAPTER XX. "'I thought love had been a joyous thing,' quoth my uncle Toby." "He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper. For what his heart thinks his tongue speaks." "More?" says Dysart startled by her expression, and puzzled as well. "Yes!" hurriedly. "This!" The very nervousness that is consuming her throws fire into her eyes and speech. "During all these long twelve months I shall be free. Quite free. You forgot to put that in! You must remember that! If--if I should, after all this thinking, decide on not having anything to do with you--you," vehemently, "will have no right to reproach me. Remember," says she going up to him and laying her hand upon his arm while the blood receding from her face leaves her very white; "remember should such a thing occur--and it is very likely," slowly, "I warn you of that--you are not to consider yourself wronged or aggrieved in any way." "Why should you talk to me in this way?" begins he, aggrieved now at all events. "You must recollect," feverishly, "that I have made you no promise. Not one. I refuse even to look upon this matter as a serious thing. I tell you honestly," her dark eyes gleaming with nervous excitement, "I don't believe I ever shall so look at it. After all," pausing, "you will do well if you now put an end to this farce between us; and tell me to take myself and my dull life out of yours forever." "I shall never tell you that," in a low tone.