ereupon Mr. Kelly
says to himself, "Now, what on earth has that fellow been doing to her?"
but aloud he says, in his usual subdued tones,--

"I don't know, I'm sure, but they say so, and perhaps they, whoever they
may be, are right. If so, I think it is a dangerous subject to discuss
with _you_. Let us skip it, and go on. You haven't told me why you are
not dancing with Desmond."

"_Why_ should I dance with Mr. Desmond?"

"Because it is not always easy to have a refusal ready, perhaps,
or----He has asked you?"

She would have given a good deal at this instant to be able to answer
"No;" but the remembrance of how he pleaded with her for one waltz that
evening at the end of the Moyne meadow comes between her and her desire.
So she says, "Yes," instead.

"And you would none of him?"

"_No._"

"It isn't my part to ask why," says Kelly, with quite a miserable air;
"but still I cannot help wondering how _any one_ can dislike Desmond."

No answer. Miss Beresford is looking straight before her, but her color
is distinctly higher, and there is a determination about her not to be
cajoled into speech, that is unmistakable. Having studied her for a
little, Mr. Kelly goes on,--

"I never know whether it is Desmond's expression or manner that is so
charming, therefore I conclude it is both. Have you noticed what a
peculiarly lovable way he has with him? But of course not, as, somehow
he has the misfortune to jar upon you. Yet very few hate him. You see,
you are that excellent thing, an exception."

"I do not hate him," says Monica; and, having thus unlocked her lips
against her inclination, she feels Owen Kelly of Kelly's Grove has won
the game; but she bears him no ill will for all that. "It is the cause,
it is the cause, my soul!"

"No! well, hate is a bitter word, and an unmannerly. I am sorry, then,
that you dislike him."

"Not even that."

"You mean, you regard him with indifference!"

"Yes, exactly that," says Monica, with slow deliberation.

"I am sorry for it. He is a man upon whom both men and women smile,--a
rare thing,--a very favorite of Fortune."

"She is fickle."

"She may well be dubbed so, indeed, if she deserts him at his sorest
need. But as yet she is faithful, as she ought to be, to the kindest,
the sincerest fellow upon earth."

"Sincerest?"

As this repetition, and the fine sneer that accompanies it, escape her,
she becomes aware that Desmond himself has come to the foot of the
stairs,