"I don't feel a bit more foolish than I did this morning," says Hermia. "Do you, dear? You were giving yourself a great deal of credit for your common sense then." "'Common sense,'--worldly wisdom,--how I hate the sound of all that jargon!" says Olga, petulantly. "Let us forget we _must_ be wise, if only for one night. The beauty of that silent world of flowers beyond has somehow entered into me. Let me enjoy it. 'How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon that bank' down there! Watch it. Can you see how the roses quiver beneath its touch, as though stirred by some happy dream?" "It is indeed a perfect night!" says Hermia, looking at her in some surprise. There is a suspicion of excitement in Olga's manner--arising, as it were, from the desire to hide one emotion by the betrayal of another--that strikes her listener as strange. "How softly the air beats upon one's face!" says Mrs. Bohun, leaning a little forward. "The night is, as you say, perfect. Yet I don't know what is the matter with me: the more I feel the loveliness of all around, the sadder my heart seems to grow." "What!" says Hermia, lifting her brows, "am I to learn now that you--the gayest of all mortals--have at last succumbed to the insufferable dreariness of this merry world?" "You run too fast. I am a little perplexed, perhaps; but I have not succumbed to anything." "Or any _one_, I hope, unless it be to your advantage. You are playing a silly game, Olga." "The world would be lost unless it had a fool to sport with now and then." "But why should _you_ be the one to pander to its pleasures?" "Who more fitting? I am tired of hearing you apply that word 'silly' to me, morning, noon, and night." "It is too late to believe it possible that you and I should quarrel," says Mrs. Herrick, in a perfectly even tone: "so don't try to get up an imaginary grievance. You know you are dearer to me than anything on earth, after the children." "Well, don't scold me any more," says Olga, coaxingly. "I never scold; I only reason." "Oh! but that is so much worse," says Olga. "It means the scolding, and a lot more besides. Do anything but reason with me, my dear Hermia." "I _will_ say that I think you are throwing yourself away." "Where? Over the balcony?"--wilfully. "I assure you, you misjudge me: I am far too great a coward." "You are not too great a coward to contemplate the committing of a much more serious _betise_. To-night his attentions were specially marked, and you allowed them." "I can't think what you mean." "Will you deny that Mr. Ronayne paid you very marked attention to-night?" "Marked! Where did he make his impression, then? He didn't _pinch_ me, if you mean that."