"I pledge myself," says Dysart, fixing a cold gaze on him. It is so cold, so distinctly hostile, that Beauclerk grows uncomfortable beneath it. When uncomfortable his natural bias leads him towards a display of bonhomie.
"Here we have before us a prospect to cheer the soul of any man," declares he, shifting his eyes from Dysart to Miss Maliphant.
"It cheers me certainly," responds that heavy maiden with alacrity. "I like to think we shall all meet again."
"Like the witches in Macbeth," says Joyce, indifferently.
"But not so malignantly, I hope," says the heiress brilliantly, who, like most worthy people, can never see beyond her own nose. "For my part I like old friends much better than new." She looks round for the appreciation that should attend this sound remark, and is gratified to find Dysart is smiling at her. Perhaps the core of that smile might not have been altogether to her taste—most cores are difficult of digestion. To her, to whom all things are new, where does the flavor of the old come in?
Beauclerk is looking at Joyce.
"I hope the prospect cheers you too," says he a little sharply, as if nettled by her determined silence and bent on making her declare herself. "You, I trust, will be here next February."
"Sure to be!" says she with an enigmatical smile. "Not a jot or tittle of your enjoyments will be lost to you in the coming year. Both your friends—Miss Maliphant and I—will be here to welcome you when you return."
Something in her manner, in the half-defiant light in her eyes, puzzles Beauclerk. What has happened to her since they last were together? Not more than an hour ago she had seemed—er—well. Inwardly he smiles complacently. But now. Could she? Is it possible? Was there a chance that——
"Miss Kavanagh," begins he, moving toward her. But she makes short work of his advance.