‘Faith, I suppose it is,’ said Desmond. ‘I’ve been trying for the last six months to find what kind o’ life I’m fit for. I’ll take to something by-and-by. As to why Lord Kilpatrick’s so good to me, you know just as much as I know myself, Lady Dulcie; Mr. Peebles, that knows more of his ways than anybody else, says ’tis to aise his conscience.’ ‘To ease his conscience?’ the girl repeated. ‘Just that,’ said Desmond. ‘An old debt he owed and never paid till my parents were dead. ’Twas my mother asked him to pay it by looking after me. He promised, and he’s kept his word--more power to him.’ ‘Do you remember your parents?’ ‘No. Both died before I could run about. They were gentlefolk, I suppose, or I’d not be called the Squireen, and I’ve the true gentlemanly knack o’ getting into scrapes. But let’s talk of something else, Lady Dulcie; ’tis a subject that always makes me sad.’ ‘Why?’ asked Dulcie. ‘Why,’ said Desmond, ‘there’s times when I feel like a boat on the sea, all alone. I’ve neither kith nor kin, only friends. You’ll laugh at me, I know, but there’s times, when I’m by myself, I feel the mist rising to my eyes and the lump in my throat, thinking I’ve never known a father’s care nor a mother’s love.’ The bright face had lost its merry impudence for the moment, and the quick, swinging step slackened. ‘Laugh at you!’ repeated Dulcie. ‘I’ll never laugh at you for that. And _I_ care for you, Desmond.’ ‘And that might come to be the bitterest of all,’ said Desmond. ‘You’re like a star in the sky above me, Lady Dulcie. You’re a rich young lady, and I’m only a poor boy dependent on strangers. But come, now,’ he continued after a short pause, ‘I’ve answered your question, will you answer mine? Is it true what I hear all about the place, that you’re to marry Richard Conseltine?’ ‘Nonsense!’ said Dulcie, flushing redly. ‘I’m not going to marry anybody!’ ‘Ah!’ said Desmond dryly, ‘that’s what all the girls say, but they never mean it.’ ‘I mean it. I think marriage is absurd. Don’t you?’ ‘Sure I do,’ responded Desmond. ‘But the priest says it’s convenient, if the world is to continue. Tell me, now, what d’ye think of Master Richard?’ ‘Think of him?’ said Dulcie slowly. ‘Oh, I think--I think he’s my cousin, and as stupid as girls’ cousins always are.’ ‘That’s mighty hard on boys in general,’ said Desmond laughingly, ‘for they’re mostly some girl’s cousin. I may be myself, for all I know. But Richard’s as fond of you as a fox of a goose--a duck, I mean. And that’s why he hates _me_.’ ‘For shame, Desmond! How has he ever shown that he hates you?’ ‘Shown it? Faith, he doesn’t need to show it. It just comes out of him like steam from boiling water. Much I care for the hate or the love of the likes o’ him! I can run him out of breath, fight him out of time, gallop him out of hearing, swim him out of seeing, chaff him out of temper--and as for loving, sure if he loves you, I’ll just adore you, and so beat him at that as well!’