don't!" repeats Joyce, lifting her head and directing a piercing
glance at her. "You! What do you know about him?"

"Why--you just said----" stammers Mrs. Monkton, and then breaks down
ignominiously.

"You knew he was in town," says Joyce, advancing to her, and looking
down on her with clasped-hands and a pale face. "Barbara, speak. You
knew he was here, and never told me; you," with a sudden, fresh burst of
inspiration, "sent him to that place to-day to meet me."

"Oh, no, dearest. No, indeed. He himself can tell you. It was only that
he----"

"Asked where I was going to, at such and such an hour, and you told
him." She is still standing over poor Mrs. Monkton in an attitude that
might almost be termed menacing.

"I didn't. I assure you, Joyce, you are taking it all quite wrongly. It
was only----"

"Oh! only--only," says the girl, contemptuously. "Do you think I can't
read between the lines? I am sure you believe you are sticking to the
honest truth, Barbara, but still----Well," bitterly, "I don't think he
profited much by the information you gave him. Your deception has given
him small satisfaction."

"I don't think you should speak to me like that," says Mrs. Monkton, in
a voice that trembles perceptibly.

"I don't care what I say," cries Joyce, with a sudden burst of passion.
"You betray me; he betrays me; all the world seem arrayed against me.
And what have I done to anybody?" She throws out her hands protestingly.

"Joyce, darling, if you would only listen."

"Listen! I am always listening, it seems to me. To him, to you, to every
one. I am tired of being silent; I must speak now. I trusted you,
Barbara, and you have been bad to me. Do you want to force him to make
love to me, that you tell him on the very first opportunity where to
find me, and in a place where I am without you, or any one to----"

"Will you try to understand?" says Mrs. Monkton, with a light stamp of
her foot, her patience going as her grief increases. "He cross-examined
me as to where you were, and would be, and I--I told him. I wasn't going
to make a mystery of it, or you, was I? I told him that you were going
to the Dore Gallery to-day with Tommy. How could I know he would go
there to meet you? He never said he was going. You are unjust, Joyce,
both to him and to me."

"Do you mean to tell me that for all that you didn't know he would be at
that place to-day?" turning flashing eyes upon her sister.

"How could I know? Unless