She has taken out all the pins now, and has thrown her bonnet on to the lounge nearest to her, and is standing before the glass in the overmantel patting and pushing into order the soft locks that lie upon her forehead. CHAPTER XXXIX. "Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair." "Life's a varied, bright illusion, Joy and sorrow--light and shade." "It was almost warm," says she, turning round to him. She seems to be talking all the time, so vivid is her face, so intense her vitality. "I was so glad to see the Brabazons again. You know them, don't you? Kit looked perfect. So lovely, so good in every way--voice, face, manners. I felt I envied her. It would be delightful to feel that every one must be admiring one, as she does." She glances at him, and he leans a little toward her. "No, no, not a compliment, please. I know I am as much behind Kit as the moon is behind the sun." "I wasn't going to pay you a compliment," says he, slowly. "No?" she laughs. It was unlike her to have made that remark, and just as unlike her to have taken his rather discourteous reply so good-naturedly. "It was a charming visit," she goes on, not in haste, but idly as it were, and as if words are easy to her. "I quite enjoyed it. Barbara didn't. I think she wanted to get home--she is always thinking of the babies--or----Well, I did. I am not ungrateful. I take the goods the gods provide, and find honest pleasure in them. I do not think, indeed, I laughed so much for quite a century as to-day with Kit." "She is sympathetic," says Felix, with the smallest thought of the person in question in his mind. "More than that, surely. Though that is a hymn of praise in itself. After all it is a relief to meet Irish people when one has spent a week or two in stolid England. You agree with me?" "I am English," returns he. "Oh! Of course! How rude of me! I didn't mean it, however. I had entirely forgotten, our acquaintance having been confined entirely to Irish soil until this luckless moment. You do forgive me?" She is leaning a little forward and looking at him with a careless expression. "No," returns he briefly. "Well, you should," says she, taking no notice of his cold rejoinder, and treating it, indeed, as if it is of no moment. If there was a deeper meaning in his refusal to grant her absolution she declines to acknowledge it. "Still, even that _betise_ of mine need not prevent you from seeing some truth in my argument. We have our charms, we Irish, eh?" "Your charm?" "Well, mine, if you like, as a type, and"--recklessly and with a shrug of her shoulders--"if you wish to be personal." She has gone a little too far.