"I hope it isn't John Smith," says Monica, smiling and picking up the card. But, as she reads what is printed thereon, the smile fades, and an expression of utter dismay overspreads her face. "'Desmond'--Oh! _not_ Desmond!" she says, imploringly, her lips growing quite pale. "Yes, it _is_ Desmond," says the young man, half amused, half puzzled. "You really think it ugly, then! Do you know I rather fancy my surname, although my Chris----" "You are not--you cannot be _the_ Desmond," interrupts she, hastily. "No; that's my uncle," says the young man, innocently. "Oh! then you acknowledge the crime?" in deep distress. "I didn't know that an old Irish title must necessarily be connected with guilt," says her companion, fairly puzzled. "Eh?" says Monica, puzzled in her turn. "I don't understand you: I only want to know if you are one of the _particular_ Desmonds?" "I suppose not," he replies, now openly amused, "because I regret to say we have never yet done anything worthy of note, or likely to distinguish us from all the other Desmonds, whose name is legion." "If you are going to tell me you live at Coole," says Miss Beresford, in a tone that is almost tragic, "I warn you it will be the last straw, and that I shan't be able to bear it." "I am not going to tell you anything," protests he. "But you must," declares she, illogically. "I may as well hear the worst at once. Go on," heroically; "tell me the truth. _Do_ you live there?" "I'm awfully afraid I do," says Mr. Desmond, feeling somehow, without knowing why, distinctly ashamed of his name and residence. "I knew it! I _felt_ it!" says Monica, with the calmness of despair. "Take me back to the bank at once,--this very instant, please. Oh, what a _row_ I should get into if they only knew!" Very justly offended at the turn affairs have taken, Mr. Desmond rows her in silence to the landing-place, in silence gives her his hand to alight, in silence makes his boat safe, without so much as a glance at her, although he _knows_ she is standing a little way from him, irresolute, remorseful, and uncertain. He might, perhaps, have maintained this dignified indifference to the end, but that, unfortunately lifting his eyes, he catches sight of her in this repentant attitude, with her head bent down, and her slim fingers toying nervously with the lilies of his own gathering. This picture flings dignity to the winds. Going up to her, he says, in a would-be careless but unmistakably offended voice, "May I ask what I have done, that 'they,' whoever they are, should consider you had disgraced yourself by being with me for half an hour?" "_You_ have done nothing," says Monica, faintly. "It was your uncle." "My _uncle!_--George Desmond! Why, what on earth can _he_ have done?" demands he, bewildered. "I don't know." Feeling this is indeed a lame answer to a most natural question, she goes on hurriedly, "It all happened twenty years ago, and----"