"You _may_," says the younger Miss Beresford, who has awakened from the dim dusk of "faerie lands forlorn" to the clearer light of earth. "You may," witheringly, "_feel_ like it, but you certainly don't _look_ like it." "I am not complete, I know that," says Mr. Desmond still full of unholy enjoyment. "I lack 'bright Apollo's lute strung with his hair;' but if you will wait a moment I will run back to Coole and get the nearest thing to it." He turns as if to fulfil his words, but Kit stops him. "Don't go," she says, laughing gayly, now herself. "Even the very original lute would not transform you into a god. Stay if you want to. After all, now I am again in my senses, I daresay you are as good to talk to as a heathen deity." "Oh, no," says Mr. Desmond, humbly. "They always thundered when they spoke: so think how imposing and convincing their arguments must have been!" "Horrid, _I_ should think," says Kit. "And now tell me what brought you here?" This is abrupt, but, taking her in her own mood, Desmond answers, bluntly,-- "Monica." "She _told_ you to come?" "No. But I want to see her." "She has gone to her room." "Make her leave it again. Tell her I cannot rest until I see her; tell her anything; only bring her to me for even one short moment." "But it is some time since I left her: perhaps she is in bed." "But not asleep yet, surely. She loves _you_, Kit: induce her, then, to come to her window, that I may even catch a glimpse of her, if I may not speak with her. But she cannot be in bed; it is so early," says Mr. Desmond, desperately. "Well," says Kit, relenting, and striving to forget the blank occasioned by the substitution of an ordinary Desmond for an extraordinary deity, "I'll see what can be done." "You will," eagerly, "really?" "Yes, really. I will stand your friend," say Kit, solemnly, feeling now that, even if the old gods have denied her an intimate acquaintance with them, still they have devoted her to the service of Cupid, and have secretly commanded her to help on the machinations of his naughty little highness. "Then will you tell her I want to see her--_here, now_--for only a bare second if she so wills it? Will you tell her this from me? Dear Kit, _sweet_ Kit, I entreat you to do this." "Oh! how sweet I am when you want me to do something for you!" says she, with a little smile. "There! I can see through you as clearly as though you were crystal; but I like you all the same. You must have some good in you to fall in love with my Monica." "Others can fall in love with her, too," returns he, with moody jealousy. "Ah, yes! I saw that," says Kit, lifting her hands excitedly. "Who could fail to see it? Who could fail to love her?" says Desmond, sadly. Then, being in such very poor case, and looking sorrowfully for comfort from any source, however small, he says, nervously,-- "Kit, answer me truthfully--you have sworn to be my friend: tell me, then, which do _you_ count the better man,--him, or me?"