Something in this little scene sends the blood rushing with impatient fervor through Olga's veins. But that she knows Monica well, and that the girl is dear to her, she could have hated her heartily at this moment, without waiting to analyze the motive for her dislike. As it is, she gives the reins to her angry spirit, and lets it drive her where it will. She laughs quite merrily, and says some pretty playful thing to Lord Rossmoyne that all the world can hear,--and Ronayne, be assured, the first of all. Desmond, with a subdued touch of surprise in his eyes, turns to look at her. But the night has darkened with sullen haste--tired, perhaps, of the day's ill temper--and standing as he does within the magic circle of the firelight, he finds a difficulty in conquering the gloom beyond. This makes his gaze in her direction the more concentrated; and, indeed, when he has separated her features from the mist of the falling night, he still finds it impossible to pierce the impenetrable veil of indifference that covers her every feature. His gaze thus necessarily prolonged is distasteful to her. "Brian, don't keep staring at the teapot in that mean fashion," she says, playfully, yet with a latent sense of impatience in her tone. "It is unworthy of you. Go up to Madam O'Connor _nobly_, cup in hand, and I daresay--if you ask her prettily--she will grant me permission to give you a cup of tea." Desmond, recovering from his revery with a start accepts the situation literally. "Will you, Madam?" he says, meekly. "_Do._" His tone is of the most abject. There is a perceptible trembling about his knee-joints. "Is _this_ the 'air noble'?" he says to Olga, in an undertone. "Have I caught it?" "You'll catch it in a minute in real earnest, if you don't mend your manners," says Madam, with a laugh. "Give him his tea, Olga, my dear, though he doesn't deserve it." "Sugar?" says Olga, laconically. "Yes, please," mendaciously. "Then you shan't have even one lump, if only to punish you for all your misconduct." "I thought as much," says Brian, taking his cup thankfully. "Fact is, I can't bear sugar but I knew you would drop it in, in an unlimited degree, if I said the other thing. Not that I have the vaguest notion as to how I have misconducted myself. If I knew, I might set a watch upon my lips." "Set it on your _eyes_," says Olga, with meaning. At this moment a light footfall is heard, and somebody comes slowly across the hall. A merry tongue of fire, flaming upwards, declares it to be the plain Miss Browne. Mrs. O'Connor has just passed into an adjoining room. Olga is busy with her tray and with her thoughts. Mrs. Herrick, partly turned aside, and oblivious of the approaching guest, is conversing in low tones with Lord Rossmoyne.