"I'll drive you there this afternoon, Miss Kavanagh," says Beauclerk, in his friendly way, that in public has never a tincture of tenderness about it. "We might start after luncheon. It is only about ten miles off. Eh?" to Baltimore. "Ten," briefly. "I am right then," equably; "we might easily do it in a little over an hour." "Hour and a half with best horse in the stables. Bad road," says Baltimore. "Even so we shall get there and back in excellent time," says Beauclerk, deaf to his brother-in-law's gruffness. "Will you come, Miss Kavanagh?" "I should like it," says Joyce, in a hesitating sort of way; "but----" "Then why not go, dear?" says Lady Baltimore kindly. "The Morroghs of Creaghstown live not half a mile from it, and they will give you tea if you feel tired; Norman is a very good whip, and will be sure to have you back here in proper time." Dysart lifting his head looks full at Joyce. "At that rate----" says she, smiling at Beauclerk. "It is settled then," says Beauclerk pleasantly. "Thank you ever so much for helping me to get rid of my afternoon in so delightful a fashion." "It is going to rain. It will be a wet evening," says Dysart abruptly. "Oh, my dear fellow! You can hardly be called a weather prophet," says Beauclerk banteringly. "You ought to know that a settled gray sky like that seldom means rain." No more is said about it then, and no mention is made of it at luncheon. At half-past two precisely, however, a dog cart comes round to the hall door. Joyce running lightly down stairs, habited for a drive, meets Dysart at the foot of the staircase. "Do not go," says he abruptly. "Not go--now," with a glance at her costume. "I didn't believe you would go," says he vehemently. "I didn't believe it possible--or I should have spoken sooner. Nevertheless, at this last moment, I entreat you to give it up." "Impossible," says she curtly, annoyed by his tone, which is perhaps, unconsciously, a little dictatorial. "You refuse me?" "It is not the question. I have said I would go. I see no reason for not going. I decline to make myself foolish in the eyes of everybody by drawing back at the last moment." "You have forgotten everything then." "I don't know," coldly, "that there is anything to remember." "Oh!" bitterly, "not so far as I am concerned. I count for nothing. I allow that. But he--I fancied you had at least read him." "I think, perhaps, there was nothing to read," says she, lowering her eyes. "If you can think that, it is useless my saying anything further." He moves to one side as if to let her pass, but she hesitates. Perhaps she would have said something to soften her decision--but--a rare thing with him, he loses his temper. Seeing her standing there before him, so sweet, so lovely, so indifferent, as he tells himself, his despair overcomes him. "I have a voice in this matter," says he, frowning heavily. "I forbid you to go with that fellow."