"Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly; Most friendship is feigning, most loving is folly."
"Did you forget?" asks Dysart, looking at her.
"Forget?"
"That the last dance was mine?"
"Oh, was it? I'm so sorry. You must forgive me," with a feverish attempt at gayety, "I will try to make amends. You shall have this one instead, no matter to whom it may belong. Come. It is only just begun, I think."
"Never mind," says Dysart, gently. "We won't dance this, I think. It is cool and quiet here, and you are tired."
"Oh, so tired," returns she with a little sudden pathetic cry, so impulsive, so inexpressible that it goes to his heart.
"Joyce! what is it?" says he, quickly. "Here, come and sit down. No, I don't want an answer. It was an absurd question. You have overdone it a little, that is all."
"Yes, that is all!" She sinks heavily into the seat he has pointed out to her, and lets her head fall back against the cushions. "However, when you come to think of it, that means a great deal," says she, smiling languidly.