"Why do you like him?" asks she defiantly.
"I don't know either," returns Joyce, with a rueful smile. "And after all I'm not sure that I like him so very much. You evidently imagine me to be head over ears in love with him, yet I, myself, scarcely know whether I like him or not."
"You always look at him so kindly, and you always pull your skirts aside to give him a place by your side."
"I should do that for Tommy."
"Would you? That would be too kind," says Tommy's mother, laughing. "It would mean ruin to your skirts in two minutes."
"But, consider the gain. The priceless scraps, of wisdom I should hear, even whilst my clothes were being demolished."
This has been a mere interlude, unintentional on the part of either, and, once over, neither knows how to go on. The question must be settled one way or the other.
"There is one thing," says Mrs. Monkton, at length, "You certainly prefer Mr. Beauclerk to Mr. Dysart."
"Do I? I wish I knew as much about myself as you know about me. And, after all, it is of no consequence whom I like. The real thing is——Come, Barbara, you who know so much can tell me this——"
"Well?" says Mrs. Monkton, seeing she has grown very red, and is evidently hesitating.