Mrs. Raeburn worried terribly about her daughter's future. She ascribed her hoyden behavior to the influence of the stage. "We don't want your theatrical manners here," she would say. "Well, who put me on the stage?" Jenny would retort. In the Christmastide after Alfie came home Jenny went to Dublin in a second Aldavini Quartette, and enjoyed herself more than ever. She had now none of the desire for seclusion that marked her Glasgow period, no contempt of man in the abstract, and was soon good friends with a certain number of young officers whom she regarded much as she regarded the boys of Islington. One of them, Terence O'Meagh, of the Royal Leinster Fusiliers, made her his own special property; he was a charming good-looking, conceited young Irishman, as susceptible to women as most of his nation, and endowing the practice of love with as little humor as most Celts. He used to wait at the stage door and drive her back to her lodgings in his own jaunting car. He used to give her small trinkets so innocently devoid of beauty as almost to attract by their artlessness. He was a very young officer who had borne the blushing honors of a scarlet tunic for a very short while, so that, in addition to the Irishman's naive assumption of universal popularity, he suffered from the sentiment that a soldier's red coat appeals to every woman. Jenny, with her splendid Cockney irreverence, thought little of Mr. O'Meagh, less of his red coat, but a very great deal of the balmy February drives past the vivid green meadows of Liffey. "You know," Terence would say, leaning gracefully over the division of the car, "you know, Jenny, our regiment--the 127th of the Line, as we call ours--was absolutely cut to pieces at Drieufontein; and at Riviersdorp they held the position against two thousand Boers." "Who cares?" said Jenny. "You might take a little interest in it." "Well," said Jenny, "how can I?" "But you might be interested because, after all, it is my regiment, and I'm awfully fond of you, little girl." "Don't be soppy," Jenny advised him. "You're so cursedly matter-of-fact." "Eh?" "So--oh, well, damn it, Jenny, you don't seem to care whether I'm with you or not." "Why should I?" "Any other girl would be fond of me." "Ah--any other girl would." "Then why aren't you?" "Oh, you'll pass in a crowd." "Dash it, I'm frightfully in love with you," vowed Terence. "What's the good of spoiling a fine day by being silly?" "Damn it, nobody else but me would stick your rudeness." And Terence would sulk, and Jenny would hum, and the jaunting car would go jaunting on. On the last night of the pantomime Mr. O'Meagh called for her as usual, and, as they drove off, said: "Look here, Miss Jenny, you're coming back to my rooms with me to-night." "Am I?" said Jenny. "That's news." "By Jove, you are!" "No fear." "You shall!" Terence caught hold of her hand. "Let me go," Jenny said.