suppose she is right. There's Miss Fitzgerald: do you admire her?"

"I am sure I _ought_," says Monica, simply; "but I _don't_."

"You have the courage of your opinions. Every one down here admires her
tremendously. I agree with you, you know, but then," softly, "_I_ am
nobody!"

"Perhaps you think I am jealous," says Monica. "But indeed I am not."

"What a baby you are!" says Mr. Kelly. "_Who_ could suppose you jealous
of Bella Fitzgerald? 'Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere,'
and I shouldn't think the fair Bella would have _much_ motion if put in
comparison with you. She always calls 'a spade a spade, and Branson's
Essence of Coffee,' etc. In fact, she is material."

"That means she has common sense. Why call her 'material'?"

"Never mind. It is quite _immaterial_," says Mr. Kelly, tranquilly,
after which silence reigns triumphantly for a moment or two, until a new
figure presents itself on a small platform below them.

"Ah! there is Desmond," says Kelly. "He looks," innocently, "as if he
was looking for somebody."

"I hope he will find her," remarks Miss Beresford, with some acerbity
and a most unnecessary amount of color.

"Perhaps he is looking for _me_," says Mr. Kelly, naively.

"Perhaps so," dryly.

"At all events, whoever it is, she, or he, or it, seems difficult of
discovery. Did you ever see so woebegone a countenance as his?"

"I think he looks quite happy enough," says Monica, without sympathy.

Kelly lets his languid gaze rest on her for a moment.

"What has Desmond done to you?" he says at last, slowly.

"Done?" haughtily. "Nothing. What _could_ he do?"

"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, wh