"Nothing, I suppose,--as you say. By the bye, I have not seen you dancing with him this afternoon." "No." "How is that?" It is an indisputable fact that some people may say with impunity what other people dare not say under pain of excommunication. Owen Kelly, as a rule, says what he likes to women without rebuke, and, what is more, without incurring their displeasure. "How is what?" "I thought that day at Aghyohillbeg that you and Desmond were great friends." "Friends! when we have only seen each other two or three times. Is friendship the growth of an hour?" "No. But something else is." He looks at her _almost_ cheerfully as he says this. "But neither you nor I, Miss Beresford, have anything to do with that flimsy passion." "You mean----" "Love!" "_Is_ there such a thing?" says Monica, wistfully, whereupon Mr. Kelly says to himself, "Now, what on earth has that fellow been doing to her?" but aloud he says, in his usual subdued tones,-- "I don't know, I'm sure, but they say so, and perhaps they, whoever they may be, are right. If so, I think it is a dangerous subject to discuss with _you_. Let us skip it, and go on. You haven't told me why you are not dancing with Desmond." "_Why_ should I dance with Mr. Desmond?" "Because it is not always easy to have a refusal ready, perhaps, or----He has asked you?" She would have given a good deal at this instant to be able to answer "No;" but the remembrance of how he pleaded with her for one waltz that evening at the end of the Moyne meadow comes between her and her desire. So she says, "Yes," instead. "And you would none of him?" "_No._" "It isn't my part to ask why," says Kelly, with quite a miserable air; "but still I cannot help wondering how _any one_ can dislike Desmond." No answer. Miss Beresford is looking straight before her, but her color is distinctly higher, and there is a determination about her not to be cajoled into speech, that is unmistakable. Having studied her for a little, Mr. Kelly goes on,-- "I never know whether it is Desmond's expression or manner that is so charming, therefore I conclude it is both. Have you noticed what a peculiarly lovable way he has with him? But of course not, as, somehow he has the misfortune to jar upon you. Yet very few hate him. You see, you are that excellent thing, an exception." "I do not hate him," says Monica; and, having thus unlocked her lips against her inclination, she feels Owen Kelly of Kelly's Grove has won the game; but she bears him no ill will for all that. "It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul!" "No! well, hate is a bitter word, and an unmannerly. I am sorry, then, that you dislike him." "Not even that." "You mean, you regard him with indifference!" "Yes, exactly that," says Monica, with slow deliberation. "I am sorry for it. He is a man upon whom both men and women smile,--a rare thing,--a very favorite of Fortune." "She is fickle."