How Madam O'Connor gives her opinion on certain subjects--How Fay electrifies an entire audience--And how Olga makes up her mind. It is growing towards evening, and as yet at Aghyohillbeg they have not grown tired of discussing the terrible event of last night. "When I called just now, Priscilla Blake was with him," says Madam O'Connor. "Brian told me The Desmond had sent for her. I suppose the old quarrel about Katherine will be patched up now, and I shouldn't wonder if our two lovers, Monica and Brian, get married quite comfortably and in the odor of sanctity, after all." "I suppose they couldn't have managed it without the old people's consent," says Mrs. Herrick, who is rocking herself lazily to and fro in a huge American chair. "Nonsense, my dear!" says Madam, throwing up her chin. "Accredit them with some decent spirit, I beg of you. Of course they would have got married whether or not,--there is nothing like opposition for that kind of thing, and no doubt would have enjoyed it all the more for the fun of the thing, because there must be an excitement in a runaway match unknown to the orthodox affair." "I don't think I should like to run away," says Olga Bohun; "there is always a difficulty about one's clothes." "What's the good of being in love if you can't get over a few paltry obstacles?" says Madam, whose heart is still young. "Well, I expect we shall have a gay wedding here before long, and be able to give that pretty child our presents without any trouble." "How long the day has been!" says Olga, with a little affected yawn, meant to reduce Ulic Ronayne to despair, who is sitting in a distant window touching up one of her paintings. "I don't know when I have been so bored,--no one to speak to. Madam, darling, you shall never go out again without me; remember that. Nobody has called,--I suppose they are afraid of being shot,--not even Owen Kelly; and one would _like_ to see him and Brian, to make sure they are all there." "Talk of somebody," says Madam, looking out of the window, "here comes Owen." As Olga puts her hand in his presently, she says, laughing,-- "Madam O'Connor says you are, in polite language, his sable majesty himself. So you must be, to escape as you did last night. Now tell us all about it. We have heard so many garbled accounts that a _real_ one will set our minds at rest." Then he tells them all about it, dropping as though unconsciously into a low chair very close to Hermia's. "So, you see," he says, when he had finished, "it might have been a very sensational affair, and covered us all with glory, only it didn't." "I think it did," says Mrs. Herrick, gently. She doesn't raise her eyes from her work to say this, but knits calmly on; only a _very_ careful observer could have noticed the faint trembling of her fingers, or the quivering of her long, downcast lashes.