"I don't want to blame any one," says Olga, with a skillfully-suppressed yawn; "but, taking your view of the case, I think it will be an awful age when there _doesn't_ live a man." "Your 'occupation will be o'er,' indeed," says Rossmoyne, with an accentuated bitterness, "when that time comes." ("He must be very much in love with her," thinks Monica, with a touch of inspiration, "he is so excessively rude to her!") "Lord Rossmoyne," says Mrs. Bohun, turning to him with ineffable sweetness, "will you do something for me?" The transition from coldness to tender appeal is too much for Rossmoyne: his face brightens. "You know there is nothing I would not do for you," he says, gravely but eagerly. "Then," promptly, "please take that ugly frown off your forehead and put it in your pocket; or--no, throw it away altogether; if you kept it near you, you might be tempted to put it on again." "I did not know I was frowning." "You were," sweetly. "You are all right again now, and so shall be rewarded. You can't think how unbecoming frowns are, and how much better you look when you are all 'sweetness and light' as now for example. Come," rising, "you shall take me for a nice long walk through these delightful old gardens." As she moves she sees the daisies still clinging to her gown that Ulic Ronayne has been amusing himself with during the past half-hour. More than this, she sees, too, the imploring gaze of his dark eyes upturned to hers. "Silly boy!" she says, stooping to shake away the daisies with her hand; but her words have a double meaning. Involuntarily, unseen by all the others--except Monica--his hand closes upon hers. "Do not go with him," he says, with deep entreaty. "I must--now." "Then let me come too?" "No." Then she raises herself, and says, gayly, "You shall stay and make love to Miss Beresford--Monica, I have desired Mr. Ronayne to stay here and amuse you." She moves across the lawn with Rossmoyne beside her. Mrs. Herrick and Mr. Kelly are strolling lazily in another direction. Monica and Ulic are alone. "Is there anything I can take you to see?" asks he, gently. "No, thank you. I am quite happy here." Then, noticing the extreme sadness on his beautiful face, she says, slowly, "But you are not, I am afraid." "I _should_ be, with so fair a companion." He smiles as he says this, but his smile is without mirth, and she does not return it. Suddenly leaning forward, she says to him, very tenderly,-- "You love Olga, do you not?" She never afterwards thinks of this speech without blushing deeply and wondering why she said it. It was an impulse too strong to be conquered, and it overpowers her. His face changes, and he colors perceptibly; he hesitates too, and regards her inquiringly. Something, perhaps, in her expression reassures him, because presently he says, bravely,--