He pauses, beams again, and looks boldly into Miss Kavanagh's eyes. She blushes hotly, and, dropping her fan, makes a little attempt to pick it up again. Mr. Beauclerk makes another little attempt, and so manages that his hand meets hers. There is a slight, an almost benevolent pressure.
Had they looked at Dysart as they both resumed their places, they could have seen that his face is white as death. Miss Kavanagh, too, looks a little pale, a little uncertain, but as a whole nervously happy.
"I've been down at that old place of mine," goes on Mr. Beauclerk. "Terrible disrepair—take thousands to put it in any sort of order. And where's one to get them? That's the one question that has got no answer now-a-days. Eh, Dysart?"
"There is an answer, however," says Dysart, curtly, not looking at him.
"Ah, well, I suppose so. But I haven't heard it yet."
"Oh, yes, I think you have," says Dysart, quite politely, but grimly, nevertheless.
"Dear fellow, how? where? unless one discovers a mine or an African diamond-field?"
"Or an heiress," says Dysart, incidentally.
"Hah! lucky dog, that comes home to you," says Beauclerk, giving him a playful pat on his shoulder, and stooping from his chair to do it, as Dysart still sits upon the grass.
"Not to me."