"So does he," says Mr. Browne. "'Felix,' you know. So Latin! Quite like one of the old monks. I shouldn't wonder if he turned out a——"
"I wish you wouldn't tease me, Dicky," says she. "You think you are amusing, you know, but I think you are one of the rudest people I ever met. I wish you would let me alone."
"Ah! Why didn't you leave me alone?" says he, with a sigh that would have set a furnace ablaze. "However!" with a noble determination to overcome his grief. "Let the past lie. You want to go and meet Dysart, isn't that it? And I'll go and meet him with you. Could self-sacrifice further go? 'Jim along Josy,' no doubt he is at the upper gate by this time, flying on the wings of love."
"He is not," says Joyce; "and I wish once for all, Dicky, that you wouldn't call me 'Josy.' 'Jocelyne' is bad enough, but 'Josy!' And I'm not going to 'jim' anywhere, and certainly"—with strong determination—"not with you." She looks at him with sudden curiosity. "What brought you here to-day?" asks she, most inhospitably it must be confessed.
"What brings me here every day? To see the unkindest girl in the world."
"She doesn't live here," says Miss Kavanagh. "Dicky"—changing her tone suddenly and looking at him with earnest eyes. "What is this I hear about Lady Baltimore and her husband? Be sensible now, do, and tell me."
"They're going abroad together—with Bertie. They've made it up," says he, growing as sensible as even she can desire. "It is such a complete make up all round that they didn't even ask me to go with them. However, I'm determined to join them at Nice on their return from Egypt. Too much billing and cooing is bad for people."
"I'm so glad," says Joyce, her eyes filling with tears. "They are two such dear people, and if it hadn't been for Lady—By the by, where is Lady Swansdown?"
"Russia, I think."
"Well, I liked her, too," says Joyce, with a sigh; "but she wasn't good for Baltimore, was she?"