e is quite a little woman about five and twenty, but looking at least
four years younger than that. Her eyes are large, dark, and mischievous.
Her hair is so fair as to be almost silvery; naturally wavy, it is cut
upon the forehead in the prevailing fashion, but not curled. Her mouth
is small, mutinous, and full of laughter; her nose distinctly retrousse.
Altogether she is distractingly pretty, and, what goes for more
nowadays, very peculiar in style, and out of the common.

She is exquisitely dressed in a costume that suggests Paris. She is a
harmony in black and white, as Lord Rossmoyne told her an hour ago, when
he was _not_ wearing his discontented expression. Seated beside her is a
tall pallid woman with a cold face, but very velvety eyes and a smile
rare but handsome. Every now and then this smile betrays itself, as her
companion says anything that chances to amuse her. She is a Mrs.
Herrick, a cousin of Olga Bohun's, and is now on a visit with her at
Aghyohillbeg.

There are several men grouped round Mrs. Bohun, all in various standing
positions. One man is lying at her feet. He is a tall slight young
fellow, of about twenty-three, with a lean face, dark hair, and
beautiful teeth. He has, too, beautiful eyes, and a most lovable
expression, half boyish, but intensely earnest and very sensitive.

Just now he appears happy and careless, and altogether as if he and the
world are friends indeed, and that he is filled with the belief that
every one likes him; and, in truth, he is right in so believing, for
every one does like him, and a great many are fond of him, and some love
him.

He is looking up at Mrs. Bohun, and is talking rapidly, as Monica and
Lord Rossmoyne come up behind them.

"What! another bit of scandal?" exclaims Mrs. Bohun, lifting her brows
in pleased anticipation. "The air seemed full of it. An hour ago I heard
of the dire discomfiture of two of my dearest friends, and just now I
listened to a legend of Belgravia that was distinctly _fifi_ and had a
good deal to do with a marchioness. It is really quite too much
happiness for _one_ day."

"My tale does not emanate from such an aristocratic region as
Belgravia," says Ulic Ronayne, the man at her feet: "it is, I blush to
say, from the city."

"Ah!" in a regretful tone; "then it will of course be decenter. Don't
trouble to expend color on it, as I daresay there isn't a blush in the
whole of it. Well," resignedly, "go on."

In the usual quick m