Unthinkingly she has brought confusion on herself. Barbara, as though stung to cruel candor, gives her the real reason in a sentence.
"Tell me this," says she, "which do you like best, Mr. Dysart, or Mr. Beauclerk?"
Joyce, taking her arm from round her sister's neck, moves back from her. A deep color has flamed into her cheeks, then died away again. She looks quite calm now.
"What a question," says she.
"Well," feverishly, "answer it."
"Oh, no," says the girl quickly.
"Why not? Why not answer it to me, your chief friend? You think the question indelicate, but why should I shrink from asking a question on which, perhaps, the happiness of your life depends? If—if you have set your heart on Mr. Beauclerk——" She stops, checked by something in Miss Kavanagh's face.
"Well, what then?" asks the latter coldly.
"It will bring you unhappiness. He is Lady Baltimore's brother. She already plans for him. The Beauclerks are poor—he is bound to marry money."
"That is a good deal about Mr. Beauclerk, but what about the other possible suitor whom you suppose I am madly in love with?"