"We were talking about Miss Browne's father; he was quite a millionaire, wasn't he?" says Lord Rossmoyne, who is standing at the tea-table beside Olga. He is a very rich man himself, and has, therefore, a due regard for riches in others. "He was,--and the most unpleasant person I ever met in my life, into the bargain," says Madam O'Connor. "I'm sure the life he led that poor Mary!--I never felt more relieved at anything than at the news of his death." "I feel as if I could weep for Mary," says Mr. Kelly, in an aside to Mrs. Herrick, who takes no notice of him. "I wonder if she has got a little lamb," he goes on, unrebuked. "What about the lamb?" says Madam, whose ears are young as ever. "I was only conjecturing as to whether your cousin Mary had a little lamb," says Mr. Kelly, genially. "The old Mary had, you know. A dear little animal with its 'Fleece as white as snow; And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go.' You recollect, don't you? What does Miss Browne do with hers? Has she got it upstairs in her room, now? After all,--though the idea is sweetly pretty,--I think there might be certain places into which it would be awkward to have even the whitest lamb trotting after one. Eh?" "I suppose Miss Browne is rich enough to indulge in any vagaries that may occur to her," says Bella Fitzgerald. "There's nothing like money," says Olga, with a sigh; at which Lord Rossmoyne looks hopeful, and young Ronayne despondent. "Like leather, you mean," says Owen Kelly: "that's the real thing to get hold of." "Some people would do _anything_ for money," says Miss Fitzgerald, with a spiteful glance in Olga's direction. "They would sell themselves for it." Here she turns her cold eyes upon Ronayne, who is standing erect, handsome, but unmistakably miserable. "They could hardly sell themselves for a more profitable article," says Olga, with a fine shrug of her soft shoulders. "So _they_ think. Croesus, we know, was, and is, allpowerful." "Oh, no," says Olga, with a little silvery laugh; "you forget my dear Bella. Read it up again, and you will see that Croesus was once conquered by Cyrus. What became of his power then?" Her lashes cover her eyes for a moment, and when she lifts them again they are fixed on Ronayne. By some coquettish art she gives him to understand in this single glance that he is Cyrus, Lord Rossmoyne Croesus. He can conquer the rich lord if he will. "How idle you are, Mr. Ronayne!" she says aloud. "Come here directly and help me. You know I cannot do without _your_ help." There is the most delicate emphasis possible upon the pronoun. Obedient to her command, he comes, as Rossmoyne, armed with the cups, crosses the hall to Hermia and Miss Fitzgerald. "Did your eyes speak true just now?" he asks, bending over her under pretext of helping her with the cups.