"'Faint heart never won fair lady,'" she says, warningly. "I cannot accuse myself of any feebleness of that sort," says Desmond, gloomily. "As you see, it all rests with her." "Perhaps she is afraid of the family feud," says Olga, laughing. "One hears such a lot about this Blake-Desmond affair that I feel I could take the gold medal if examined about it. There!--what nonsense! Go and speak to her, and defy those dear old ladies at Moyne." "You were talking about that pretty Miss Beresford?" says Ronayne, as Brian moves away. "Yes. But, sir," archly, "dare you see beauty in any woman when I am by?" "Oh that I could see you really jealous, and of _me_!" returns he, half sadly, looking at her with longing eyes. "If I thought I could make your heart ache for even one short minute, I should be the happiest man alive." "_Boy_, you mean! Oh, traitor! And would you have me miserable for your own gratification?" "It would be for yours later on. For that one moment you would gain a slave forever." "And unless I am wretched for that one moment, I cannot gain my slave?" "You know the answer to that only too well," returns he, with so much fervor that she refuses to continue the discussion. "Talking of jealousy," she says, lightly, with a glance at him, "it is the dream of my life to make Rossmoyne jealous,--to reduce him to absolute submission. He is so cold, so precise, so English, that it would be quite a triumph to drag him at one's chariot-wheels. Shall I be able to do it?" she turns up her charming face to his, as though in question. She is looking her very sweetest, and is tenderly aware of the fact; and, indeed, so is he. "I suppose so," he says, in answer to her, but slowly and reproachfully. "But I must have help," says Olga. "_Some_ one must help me. You?--is it not?" "I?" with strong emphasis. "What should I have to do with it?" "Not much, yet I count upon you. Why, who do you think I am going to make him jealous about? Eh?" "How should I know?" "How shouldn't you? Why it is of you,--_you_!" with quite a delicious little laugh. "So you will have to dance round after me all day for the future until your mission is fulfilled, and try to look as if you _really_ loved me." "You have mistaken your man," says Ronayne, quietly: "you must get some one else to help you in this matter. It is not for me, even if I did not love you; I should scorn so low a task." "Love is an idle word," she says, her eyes flashing. "It may be--to some. But I tell you no man's heart is of so poor value that it can be flung hither and thither at any one's pleasure,--no, not even at the pleasure of the woman he adores. You will seek some more complaisant lover to be your dupe on this occasion. I decline the office."