"I mean you don't object to the subject,--or Mr. Ryde?" says Olga, kindly, unaware that Mr. Ryde has come away from the tea-table and is now close behind her. Monica, however, sees him, and smiles courteously. "Oh, no," she says, as in duty bound. And then the fourth is found and grasped, and all trouble is at an end. "_So_ glad I can now take my tea in peace," says Olga, with a sigh of profound relief. "_Who_ would be stage-manager?" "Ah! you don't do much of this kind of thing in Ireland, I daresay," says Mr. Ryde. "What kind of thing?" asks Olga, sweetly, who doesn't like him. "Tea-drinking?" "No--acting--er--and that." "I'm afraid I'm quite at sea about the '_that_,'" says Olga, shaking her blonde head. "Perhaps we do a good deal of it, perhaps we don't. Explain it to me." ("Awful stoopid people!--not a word of truth about their ready wit," says Mr. Ryde to himself at this juncture.) "Oh, well--er--let us confine ourselves to the acting," he says, feeling somehow at a loss. "It is new to you here, it seems." "I certainly have never acted in my life," begins Monica; "but----" Mrs. Bohun interrupts her. "We are a hopelessly benighted lot," she says, making Ryde a present of a beautiful smile. "We are sadly behind the world,--_rococo_"--shrugging her shoulders pathetically--"to the last degree. You, Mr. Ryde, have opened up to us possibilities never dreamt of before; touches of civilization hitherto unknown." "I should think in your case a very little tuition would be sufficient," says Ryde, with such kindly encouragement in his tone that Ronayne, who is at Olga's feet, collapses, and from being abnormally grave breaks into riotous laughter. "You must teach us stage effects,--is that the proper term?--and correct us when we betray too crass an ignorance, and--above all things, Mr. Ryde," with an arch glance, "you must promise not to lose your temper over the _gaucheries_ of your Dolly Varden." "Whose Dolly Varden?" asks Desmond, coming up at this instant laden with cups of tea. "Mr. Ryde's." "He is to be Hugh to Miss Beresford's Dolly," says Ronayne. "Yes, isn't it good of Monica? she has consented to take the part," says Olga, who is really grateful to her for having helped her out of her difficulty. "_Have_ you?" says Desmond, turning upon Monica with dilated eyes. "Yes. Is that tea for me?" returns she, calmly, with great self-possession, seeing that sundry eyes are upon her. "For you, or any one," replies he. Tone can convey far more meaning than words. The words just now are correct enough, but the tone is uncivil to the last degree. Monica, flushing slightly, takes a cup from him, and Olga takes the second. There is a short silence whilst they stir their tea, during which Madam O'Connor's voice can be distinctly heard,--it generally _can_ above every tumult. She is discoursing enthusiastically about some wonderful tree in her orchard, literally borne down by fruit.