"And he's rich—why don't you tell me that?" Honor returns scornfully. "Every one's head seems to be turned by the man's money—even the pater's."
"Your head is not turned," Belle observes dryly, "nor your heart either, unfortunately."
"Tell me one thing," says Honor, facing her friend suddenly—"do you think this George Cantrill is as nice as Launce?"
"As nice as Launce? Well, no, I don't; but then"—gravely—"you don't often see any one who is quite as nice as Launce, do you, dear?"
"I intend to wait till I do, then," Honor retorts.
"Brian Beresford was nearly as nice," Belle says demurely, looking innocently at Honor; "but then he was English, and he had an awful temper—hadn't he?—and——" But she stops with a little gap of surprise, for the man himself, very worn and gaunt-looking, is walking toward them. "Why, Honor, did you know he was coming?"
Honor turns and looks at her tranquilly.
"Did I know who was coming, dear? Aren't you just a trifle vague this morning?"
"I'm awfully glad," the girl answers, with a curious smile; "and I
think I'll go home now. Dad is sure to want me; and—— How do you do,
Mr. Beresford?"—turning swiftly. "I'm delighted to see you back in
Ireland."
"Thanks, Miss Delorme," a deep voice answers; and Honor looks round and sees him standing on the grass quite close to her—this grave, bearded man who left Donaghmore four months ago, looking so very ill and worn. He looks ill now, for that matter; but at the sight of him her heart gives a great leap and the color comes into her face.