"Well, then, I will send and say we
expect him; will that satisfy you?"

"No, certainly not! Seriously,
Margaret, for one minute. You know that I
was only in fun, and that it cannot matter
one atom to me whether this young man is
asked to join your party or not. Only, if
you do ask him, don't send. You know
the sort of message which the footman
would deliver, no matter what formula had
been entrusted to him; and I should be
very sorry to think that Mr. Joyce, or any
other gentleman, should be caused a
mortification through any folly of mine."

"Perhaps you think I ought to go to
him and oifer him a verbal invitation?"

"Certainly, if you want him at all——I
mean if you intend asking him to dinner.
You'll be sure to find him in the library.
Now I'm dying to get rid of this soaked
habit and this clinging skirt! So I'm off
to dress." And Lady Caroline Mansergh
gave her sister a short nod, and left the
room.

Left alone, Lady Hetherington took a
few minutes to recover herself. Her pet
sister Caroline had always been a spoiled
child, and accustomed to have her own way
in the old home, in her own house when
she married Mr. Mansergh——the richest,
idlest, kindest old gentleman that ever
slept in St. Stephen's first, and in Glasnevin
Cemetery scarcely more soundly afterwards
——and generally everywhere since
she had lost him. But she had been always
remarkable for particularly sound sense,
and had a manner of treating objectionably
pushing people, which succeeded in keeping
them at a distance, better even than the
frigid hauteur which Lady Hetherington
indulged in. The countess knew this, and,
acknowledging it in her inmost heart, felt
that she could make no great mistake in
acceding to her sister's wishes. Moreover,
she reflected, after all it was a mere small
country-house dinner that day; there was
no one expected about whose opinion she
particularly cared; and as the man was
domiciled in the house, was useful to Lord
Hetherington, and was presentable, it was
only right to show him some civility.

So, after leaving the drawing-room on
her way to dress for dinner, Lady Hether-
ington crossed the hall to the library, and
at the far end of the room saw Mr. Joyce
at work, under a shaded lamp. She went
straight up to him, and was somewhat
amused at finding that he, either not hearing
her entrance, or imagining that it was
merely some servant with a message, never
raised his head, but continued grinding
away at his manuscript.

"Mr. Joyce!" said her ladyship, slightly
bending forward.

"Hey?" replied the scribe, in whose ear
the tones, always haughty and imperious,
however she might try to soften them, rang
like a trumpet call. "I beg your pardon,
Lady Hetherington," he added, rising from
his seat;  "I had no idea you were in the
room."

"Don't disturb yourself, Mr. Joyce; I
only looked in to say that we have a few
friends coming to dinner to-night, and it
will afford Lord Hetherington and myself
much pleasure if you will join us."

"I shall be most happy," said Mr. Joyce.
And then Lady Hetherington returned his
bow, and he preceded her down the room
and opened the door to let her pass.

"As if he'd been a squire of dames from
his cradle," said her ladyship to herself.
"The man has good hands, I noticed, and
there was no awkwardness about him."

"What does this mean?" said Walter
Joyce, when he reached his own room and
was dressing for dinner. "These people
have been more civil than I could have
expected them to be to a man in my position,
and Lord Hetherington especially has been
kindness itself; but they have always
treated me as what I am——'his lordship's
secretary.' Whence this new recognition?
One comfort is that, thanks to old Jack
Byrne's generosity, I can make a decent
appearance at their table. I laughed when
he insisted on providing me with dress
clothes, but he knew better. 'They can't do
you any harm, my boy,' I recollect his saying,
'and they may do you some good;' and now
I see how right he was. Fancy my going
into society, and beginning at this phase of
it! I wonder whether Marian would be
pleased? I wonder——" And he sat
down on the edge of his bed, and fell into a
dreamy, abstracted state; the effect caused
by Marian's last long letter was upon him
yet. He had answered it strongly——far
more strongly than he had ever written to
her before——pointing out that, at the
outset, they had never imagined that life's
path was to be made smooth and easy to
them; they had always known that they
would have to struggle, and that it was
specially unlike her to fold her hands and
beg for the unattainable, simply because
she saw it in the possession of other people.
"She dared not tell him how little hope for
the future, she had." That was a bad sign