Rossmoyne. Duchess
heat and turmoil of the town."
"Yes, for a time it is charming, all-sufficing," says Mrs. Bohun, "but for what a little time! Perhaps, – I am not sure, – but perhaps I should like to live for three months of every year in the country. After that, I know I should begin to pine again for the smoke and smuts of my town."
"If you are already wearied, I wonder you stay here," says Lord Rossmoyne, sullenly.
"And I wonder what has happened to-day to your usually so charming temper," returns she, laughingly uplifting her face to his, and letting her eyes rest on him with almost insolent inquiry.
"Desmond says good temper is a mere matter of digestion," says some one at this moment. Monica starts more at the name mentioned than at the exceedingly worn-out words uttered. She glances at the speaker, and sees he is a very ugly young man, with a nice face, and a remarkably dismal expression. He is looking at Rossmoyne. "Sit down, dear boy," he says, sotto voce and very sadly. "There's too much of you; you should never stand. You appear to so much better advantage when doubled in two. It don't sound well, does it? but – "
"But really, when you come to think of it," Mrs. Bohun is saying, feelingly, "there is very little in the country."
"There is at least the fascinating tulip and lily," says the sad man who mentioned Desmond's name. "Don't put yourself beyond the pale of art by saying you had forgotten those æsthetic flowers, – blossoms, I mean. Don't you yearn when you think of them? I do."
"So glad you are awake at last, Owen!" says Mrs. Bohun.
"That silly craze about tulips," says Mrs. Herrick, contemptuously, "I have always treated it with scorn. Why could not the art idiots have chosen some better flower for their lunatic ravings? What can any one see in a tulip?"
"Sometimes earwigs," says the man called Owen.
"Nonsense! I don't believe even earwigs would care for it. Foolish, gaudy thing, uplifting its lanky neck as though to outdo its fellows! There is really nothing in it."
"Like the country," says Owen, meekly, "according to Mrs. Bohun."
"And like Bella Fitzgerald," says that graceless person, with a little grimace.
"My dear Olga," says Mrs. Herrick, glancing quickly to right and left. "Do you never think?"
"As seldom as ever I can. But why be nervous, Hermia? If any one were to compare me with a tulip, I should die of – no, not chagrin —joy, I mean, of course. Monica, what are you saying to Owen?"
"I don't think I know who Owen is," says Monica, with a glance at the gentleman in question, that is half shy, half friendly.
"That argues yourself unknown," says Olga. "He is Master Owen Kelly, of Kelly's Grove, county Antrim, and the bright and shining light of the junior bar. They all swear by him in Dublin, – all, that is except the judges, and they swear at him."
Monica looks at Master Owen Kelly in a faintly puzzled fashion.
"It is all quite true," says that young man, modestly, in a reassuring tone.
"Now tell us what you were saying to each other," says Olga.
"It was nothing," returns Monica. "We were only talking about this Egyptian war. But I don't really," nervously, "understand anything about it."
"You needn't blush for your ignorance on that score," says Mr. Kelly. "You're in the general swim: nobody knows."
"It is the most senseless proceeding altogether," says Hermia Herrick, in her decided way. "Gladstone's wars are toys. He has had three of them now, dear little fellow, to amuse himself with, and he ought to be proud of his victories."
"According to Erasmus, war is the 'malady of princes,'" says Lord Rossmoyne, sententiously.
"Rossmoyne isn't well," says Mr. Kelly, softly. "He is calling the wood-cutter a prince. It reminds one of Hans Andersen's fairy-tale: all hewers of wood and drawers of water were blood-royal then."
"Yet Gladstone has intellect," says Mrs. Herrick, in oh, such a tone: would that the master of Hewarden could have heard her!
"Some!" said Mr. Kelly. "He is indeed 'a thing apart.' I know nothing like him. 'Once, in the flight of ages past, there lived a man.' In ages to come they will say that of our modern immortal William. They will probably add that no real man has ever lived since."
"How silly you can be at times!" says Olga.
"It isn't mine; it's Montgomery's nonsense," says Mr. Kelly, sadly. "Blame him, not me."
"I don't want to blame any one," says Olga, with a skillfully-suppressed yawn; "but, taking your view of the case, I think it will be an awful age when there doesn't live a man."
"Your 'occupation will be o'er,' indeed," says Rossmoyne, with an accentuated bitterness, "when that time comes."
("He must be very much in love with her," thinks Monica, with a touch of inspiration, "he is so excessively rude to her!")
"Lord Rossmoyne," says Mrs. Bohun, turning to him with ineffable sweetness, "will you do something for me?"
The transition from coldness to tender appeal is too much for Rossmoyne: his face brightens.
"You know there is nothing I would not do for you," he says, gravely but eagerly.
"Then," promptly, "please take that ugly frown off your forehead and put it in your pocket; or – no, throw it away altogether; if you kept it near you, you might be tempted to put it on again."
"I did not know I was frowning."
"You were," sweetly. "You are all right again now, and so shall be rewarded. You can't think how unbecoming frowns are, and how much better you look when you are all 'sweetness and light' as now for example. Come," rising, "you shall take me for a nice long walk through these delightful old gardens."
As she moves she sees the daisies still clinging to her gown that Ulic Ronayne has been amusing himself with during the past half-hour. More than this, she sees, too, the imploring gaze of his dark eyes upturned to hers.
"Silly boy!" she says, stooping to shake away the daisies with her hand; but her words have a double meaning. Involuntarily, unseen by all the others – except Monica – his hand closes upon hers.
"Do not go with him," he says, with deep entreaty.
"I must – now."
"Then let me come too?"
"No." Then she raises herself, and says, gayly, "You shall stay and make love to Miss Beresford – Monica, I have desired Mr. Ronayne to stay here and amuse you."
She moves across the lawn with Rossmoyne beside her. Mrs. Herrick and Mr. Kelly are strolling lazily in another direction. Monica and Ulic are alone.
"Is there anything I can take you to see?" asks he, gently.
"No, thank you. I am quite happy here."
Then, noticing the extreme sadness on his beautiful face, she says, slowly, "But you are not, I am afraid."
"I should be, with so fair a companion." He smiles as he says this, but his smile is without mirth, and she does not return it. Suddenly leaning forward, she says to him, very tenderly, —
"You love Olga, do you not?"
She never afterwards thinks of this speech without blushing deeply and wondering why she said it. It was an impulse too strong to be conquered, and it overpowers her. His face changes, and he colors perceptibly; he hesitates too, and regards her inquiringly. Something, perhaps, in her expression reassures him, because presently he says, bravely, —
"Yes, I do. I love her with all my heart and soul; as I never have loved, as I never shall love again. This thought is my happiness: my sorrow lies in the fear that she will never love me. Forgive my saying all this to you: she told me to amuse you," with a faint smile, "and I have woefully neglected her commands."
"You must forgive me," says Monica. "I should not have asked you the question."
"Do