Not so, however, does Bella Fitzgerald regard it. She, tall, and with a would-be stately air, walks through the grounds at Lord Rossmoyne's side, to whom she has attached herself, and who, _faute de mieux_, makes himself as agreeable as he can to her, considering how he is inwardly raging at what he is pleased to term Olga's disgraceful behavior. Miss Priscilla has now been seized upon by Madam O'Connor and carried off for a private confab. "And you really _must_ let her come to us for a week, my dear," says Madam O'Connor, in her fine rich brogue. "Yes, now, really I want her. It will be quite a favor. I can't withstand a pretty face, as you well know 'tis a weakness of mine, my dear, and she is really a pearl. Olga Bohun is talking of getting up tableaux or some such nonsense, and she wants your pretty child to help us." "I should like her to go to you. It is very kind of you," says Miss Priscilla, but with unmistakable hesitation. "Now, what is it? Out with it, Priscilla!" says Madam O'Connor, bluntly. Miss Priscilla struggles with herself for yet another minute, and then says, quickly,-- "That young man Desmond,--will _he_ be staying in your house?" "Not if you object, my dear," says Mrs. O'Connor, kindly; "though I do think it is a pity to thwart that affair. He is as nice and as pleasant a young fellow as I know, and would make a jewel of a husband; and money--say what you like, my dear Priscilla--is always something. It ranks higher than _revenge_." "There is no revenge. It is only a just resentment." "Well, I'll call it by any name you like, my dear, but I must say----" "I must beg, Gertrude, you will not discuss this unhappy subject," says Miss Priscilla, with some agitation. "Well, I won't, there. Then let it lie," says Madam O'Connor, good-humoredly. "And tell me, now, if I come over to fetch Monica on Monday, will she be ready for me?" "Quite ready. But we have not consulted her yet," says Miss Priscilla, clinging to a broken reed. "Olga is talking to her about it. And, if she's the girl she _looks_, she'll be glad of a change, and the chance of a sweetheart," says Madam O'Connor, gayly. * * * * * "What lovely lilies!" says Mrs. Bohun, standing before a tall white group. "Oh, don't!" says Owen Kelly, who has joined her and Monica. "Whenever I hear a lily mentioned I think of Oscar Wilde, and it hurts very much." "I like Oscar Wilde. He is quite nice, and _very_ amusing," says Olga. "I wonder if I could make my hair grow," says Mr. Kelly, meditatively. "He's been very clever about his; but I suppose somebody taught him." "Well, I think long hair is dirty," says Mrs. Bohun, with an abstracted glance at Ronayne's lightly-shaven head. Then, as though tired of her sweet _role_ and of its object (Ronayne) and everything, she turns capriciously aside, and, motioning away the men with her hand and a small frown, sits down at Hermia Herrick's feet and plucks idly at the grasses near her.