be, and you are----Brian, I will give up that
tableau. I will not be Dolly Varden; no, not if Mr. Ryde went on his
_knees_ to me."

"My dear, _dear_ love!" says Mr. Desmond.

"Do you indeed love me," says Monica, softly, "in spite of all I do?"

"I love you _because_ of all you do. What is there not commendable in
every action of yours? I love you; I live always in the hope that some
day you will be more to me than you are to-day. A presumptuous hope
perhaps," with a rather forced smile, "but one I _will_ not stifle. I
suppose every one lives in a visionary world at times, where some 'not
impossible she' reigns as queen. I dare say you think my queen _is_
impossible, yet you little know what dreams have been my playmates,
night and day."

"Am I your queen?" sweetly.

"Yes, darling."

"And you are glad I have given up this tableau?"

"I don't know what I should have done if you hadn't."

"Then, now you will do something for me," says Miss Beresford, promptly.

"Anything," with enthusiasm.

"Then to-morrow you are to come here _without_ the roses I heard you
promising Miss Fitzgerald this afternoon."

Her tone is quite composed, but two little brilliant flecks of color
have risen hurriedly and are now flaunting themselves on either pretty
cheek. She is evidently very seriously in earnest.

"She asked me for them: she will think it so ungenerous, so rude," says
Desmond.

"Not ungenerous. She will never think you that, or rude either," says
Monica, gauging the truth to a nicety. "_Careless_ if you will, but no
more; and--I _want_ you to seem careless where she is concerned."

"But why, my dearest?"

"Because I don't like her; she always treats me as though I were some
insignificant little girl still in short petticoats," says Miss
Beresford, with rising indignation. "And because--because, too----"

She pauses in some confusion.

"Go on: because what?" with gentle encouragement.

"Well, then, because I know she wants to _marry_ you," says Monica,
vehemently, but in a choked voice.

"What an extraordinary idea to come into your head!" says Desmond, in a
choked tone also, but from a different emotion.

"What are you laughing at?" severely. "At me?"

"My darling, it seems so absurd, and----"

"I _forbid_ you to laugh," in a tone replete with anger but highly
suggestive of tears. "Don't do it."

"I'll never laugh again, my pet, if it offends you so dreadfully."

"But your eyes are laughing; I can