oment to regret, for she
was too much a woman of the world to waste time in considering her
mistakes. The needs of the moment were ever present to her, and she now
devoted herself entirely to the task of consoling her daughter. Barnes,
too, was well instructed, and henceforth she spoke only of the earls,
dukes, lords, and princes who were waiting for Olive at the Castle.

In the afternoon Mrs. Barton called Olive into the drawing-room, where
woman was represented as a triumphant creature walking over the heads
and hearts of men. '_Le genie de la femme est la beaute_,' declared
Milord, and again: '_Le coeur de l'homme ne peut servir que de piedestal
pour l'idole.'_

'Oh! Milord, Milord!' said Mrs. Barton. 'So in worshipping us you are
idolaters. I'm ashamed of you.'

'Pardon, pardon, madame: _Devant un amour faux on est idolatre, mais a
l'autel d'un vrai, on est chretien_.'

And in such lugubrious gaiety the girl grieved. Captain Hibbert had been
refused admission; he had written, but his letters had been intercepted;
and holding them in her hand Mrs. Barton explained she could not consent
to such a marriage, and continued to dazzle the girl with visions of the
honours that awaited the future Marchioness of Kilcarney. 'An engaged
girl is not noticed at the Castle. You don't know what nice men you'll
meet there; have your fun out first,' were the arguments most frequently
put forward; and, in the excitement of breaking off Olive's engagement,
even the Land League was forgotten. Olive hesitated, but at length
allowed herself to be persuaded to at least try to captivate the marquis
before she honoured the captain with her hand. No sooner said than done.
Mrs. Barton lost not a moment in writing to Captain Hibbert, asking him
to come and see them the following day, if possible, between eleven and
twelve. She wanted to speak to him on a matter which had lately come to
her knowledge, and which had occasioned her a good deal of surprise.

XIII

Mr. Barton could think of nothing but the muscles of the strained back
of a dying Briton and a Roman soldier who cut the cords that bound the
white captive to the sacrificial oak; but it would be no use returning
to the studio until these infernal tenants were settled with, and he
loitered about the drawing-room windows looking pale, picturesque, and
lymphatic. His lack of interest in his property irritated Mrs. Barton.
'Darling, you must try to get them to take twenty per c