anner habitual to him, and with the slight but
eloquent amount of gesture common to Irish people, Ronayne tells his
news, which is received with low laughter by those around.

"I've heard better stories," says Mrs. Bohun, discontentedly; "and it
isn't a bit like what Lord Tommy would do. It is more in Rossmoyne's
line. I don't think I believe it. And the roundabout way in which you
told it reminds one of a three-volume novel: the first leads up to the
point, the third winds up the point, the second _is_ the point. I
confess I like the second volume best. When I grow funny over my friends
I'm _all_ second."

"Then don't be funny about me, please," says Ronayne, lazily.

"_Are_ you my friend?" asks she, glancing at him. Lifting his eyes to
hers, he pauses, and then says slowly, the smile dying from his face,--

"Well, perhaps _not_."

Then he lowers his eyes again, and goes back to his idle occupation of
decorating with daisies some of the fantastic loops upon her gown.

At this moment Lord Rossmoyne, coming forward, says, sullenly, "May I
hear the story that just now reminded you of me? But first----" He
pauses, and glances at Monica. Mrs. Bohun, following his glance, rises
hurriedly from her seat, and going up to the girl, embraces her warmly.

"Ah! my _pretty_ Monica! my little saint!" she cries, in her sweet, gay
voice, "what happy breeze has blown you hither?"

"I am living here,--at Moyne,--with my aunts," in a happy, breathless
way. "Some days ago they described you to me, and I knew it must be you.
I was right. And to-day I have found you."

"I'm always found out, as a rule," says Mrs. Bohun, with a light laugh.
"That is my standing grievance. You know Hermia, don't you?" indicating
the tall, cold-looking woman near her, who so far unbends as to take
Monica's hand kindly and bestow upon her one of her handsome smiles.
"She has come here to look after me and see that I don't get into a
scrape or make myself unhappy."

"Could you be unhappy?" says Rossmoyne, from behind her chair, in so
disagreeable a tone that every one looks at him. "Decidedly," thinks
Monica to herself, "he has either neuralgia or an execrable temper."

"Miserably so," says the pretty widow, airily. "Though, after all,"
reflectively, "I believe I have even a greater talent for making others
so. That, however, is my misfortune, not my fault. I was 'born so,' like
that poor man with the twisted neck."

"Well, this is not one of your mi