ed, and is, in fact enjoying herself immensely.

"If I go, which is more than improbable, I shall certainly not dance
with you at all," she says, calmly, "because Aunt Priscilla will be
there too, and she would not hear of my doing even a mild quadrille with
a Desmond."

"I see," with a melancholy assumption of composure. "All your dances,
then, are to be reserved for Ryde."

"If Mr. Ryde asks me to dance, of course I shall not refuse."

"You mean to tell me"--even the poor assumption is now gone--"that you
are going to give him _all_ and me _none_?"

"I shall not give any one _all_: how can you talk like that? But I
cannot defy Aunt Priscilla. It is very unkind of you to desire it. I
suppose you think I should enjoy being tormented from morning till night
all about you?"

"Certainly not. I don't want you to be tormented on any account, and,
above all on mine," very stiffly. "To prevent anything of the kind, I
shall not go to Cobbett's dance."

"If you choose to get into a bad temper I can't help you."

"I am _not_ in a bad temper, and even if I were I have cause. But it is
not temper will prevent my going to the Barracks."

"What then?"

"Why should I go there to be made miserable? _You_ can go and dance with
Ryde to your heart's content, but I shall spare myself the pain of
seeing you. Did you say you wanted your sister? Shall I call her now? I
am sure you must want to go home."

"I don't," she says, unexpectedly; and then a little smile of conscious
triumph wreathes her lips as she looks at him, standing moody and
dejected before her. A word from her will transform him; and now, the
day being all her own, she can afford to be generous. Even the very best
of women can be cruel to their lovers.

"I don't," she says, "not _yet_. There is something I want to ask you
first," she pauses in a tantalizing fashion, and glances from the grass
she is still holding to him, and from him back to the grass again,
before she speaks. "It is a question," she says then, as though
reluctantly, "but you look so angry with me that I am afraid to ask it."
This is the rankest hypocrisy, as he is as wax in her hands at this
moment; but, though he knows it, he gives in to the sweetness of her
manner, and lets his face clear.

"Ask me anything you like," he says, turning upon her now a countenance
"more in sorrow than in anger."

"It isn't much," said Miss Beresford, sweetly, "only--what _is_ your
Christian name? I have been