whenever he found anybody kind enough, or (as in Monica's case
now) obliged, to listen to him.

Just now, there being a distinct and rather embarrassing pause, he says
amiably,--

"Awfully jolly gown you've got on!"

"So glad you like it!" says Monica, absently.

"Got it from town, I suppose?"

"From Dublin--yes."

"Oh! by Jove, you call Dublin town, do you?" says Mr. Ryde, with a heavy
laugh that suggests danger of choking, he being slightly plethoric by
nature.

"Yes: what do you call it?" says Monica, regarding him steadily. She has
hardly looked at him till now, and tells herself instantly that young
men with fat faces are not in _her_ line.

"Always thought it was a village, or something of that sort, you know,"
replies he, with a continuation of the suicidal merriment.

Monica stares, and her color rises, ever so little, but unmistakably.

"You ought to read something, papers and articles on Ireland, now and
then," she says, deep but suspicious pity for him in her tone.
"Considering what education costs nowadays, it is shameful the way yours
has been neglected. Your college, or wherever you were, ought to be
ashamed of itself. Why, I don't believe you know what a capital means."

"A capital?--in writing, do you mean?" asks he, puzzled.

"N--o; I wasn't thinking of that. You can write, I suppose," with
malicious hesitation that betrays doubt. "I was speaking of the capitals
of Europe. Dublin is one of them."

Unable to grasp the fact that she is mildly snubbing him, Mr. Ryde
smiles gayly, and says, "Oh, really?" with an amused air that incenses
her still more highly. "Was there ever," she asks herself, angrily, "so
hateful a man, or so long a gravel walk!"

Having racked his brain to find something further wherewith to beguile
the monotony of the way, and finding it barren, Mr. Ryde falls back upon
the original subject.

"I like a white gown on a woman better than any," he says. "And so they
really _can_ make gowns in Ireland? I've been awfully disappointed, do
you know?--reg'lar sold. I came over here in the full hope of seeing
everybody going about in goatskins and with beads round their
necks--and--er--that."

"And why are you disappointed?" asks Monica, mildly, with a provoking
want of appreciation of this brilliant sally. "Are you fond of goatskins
and beads? Do _you_ wear them when 'your foot is on your native heath'?"

"Eh?--Oh, you don't understand," says this dense young man, fatally