"No? You will be modest? Well, well! But talking of that old place, I assure you, Miss Kavanagh, it worries me—it does, indeed. It sounds like one's duty to restore it, and still——"
"There are better things than even an old place," says Dysart.
"Ah! you haven't one you see," cries Beauclerk, with the utmost geniality. "If you had——I really think if you had you would understand that it requires a sacrifice to give it up to moths and rust and ruin."
"I said there were better things than old places," says Dysart doggedly, never looking in his direction. "And if there are, make a sacrifice."
"Pouf! Lucky fellows like you—gay soldier lads—with hearts as light as sunbeams, can easily preach; but sacrifices are not so easily made. There is that horrid word, Duty! And a man must sometimes think!"
Joyce, as though the last word has struck some answering chord that wounds her as it strikes, looks suddenly at him. What was it Barbara had said? "He was a man who would always think,"—is he thinking now—even now—at this moment?—is he weighing matters in his mind?
"Hah!" says Beauclerk rising and pointing to the court nearest them; "that game is over. Come on, Miss Kavanagh, let us go and get our scalps. I say, Dysart, will you fight it out with us?"
"No thanks."
"Afraid?" gaily.
"Of you—no," smiling; the smile is admirably done, and would be taken as the genuine article anywhere.