ad our misgivings all along. Ah, I forgot, you haven't
seen Joyce until now."

"How d'ye do?" says Miss Kavanagh, holding out her hand to him, with a
calm as perfect as her smile.

"I do hope they were good," goes on Mrs. Monkton, her nervousness rather
increasing.

"You know I have always said they were the best children in the world."

"Ah! said, said," repeats Mrs. Monkton, who now seems grateful for the
chance of saying anything. What is the meaning of Joyce's sudden
amiability--and is it amiability, or----

"It is true one can say almost anything," says Joyce, quite pleasantly.
She nods her head prettily at Dysart. "There is no law to prevent them.
Barbara thinks you are not sincere. She is not fair to you. You always
do mean what you say, don't you?"

But for the smile that accompanies these words Dysart would have felt
his doom sealed. But could she mean a stab so cruel, so direct, and
still look kind?

"Oh! he is always sincere," says Barbara, quickly; "only people say
things about one's children, you know, that----" She stops.

"They are the dearest children. You are a bad mother; you wrong them,"
says Joyce, laughing lightly, plainly at the idea of Barbara's affection
for her children being impugned. "She told me," turning her lovely eyes
full on Dysart, with no special expression in them whatever, "that I
should find only your remains after spending an hour with them." Her
smile was brilliant.

"She was wrong, you see, I am still here," says Felix, hardly knowing
what he says in his desire to read her face, which is strictly
impassive.

"Yes, still here," says Miss Kavanagh, smiling, always, and apparently
meaning nothing at all; yet to Felix, watching her, there seems to be
something treacherous in her manner.

"Still here?" Had she hoped he would be gone? Was that the cause of her
delay? Had she purposely put off coming home to give him time to grow
tired and go away? And yet she is looking at him with a smile!

"I am afraid you had a bad luncheon and a bad time generally," says Mrs.
Monkton, quickly, who seemed hurried in every way. "But we came home as
soon as ever we could. Didn't we, Joyce?" Her appeal to her sister is
suggestive of fear as to the answer, but she need not have been nervous
about that.

"We flew!" declares Miss Kavanagh, with delightful zeal. "We thought we
should never get here soon enough. Didn't we, Barbara?" There is the
very barest, faintest imitation of her sister'